And Two Devious Wolves
by DestinyShiva
Summary: Sequel to Our Scandalous Little Rabbit. Includes references to sex, masturbation, eventual sex, including toys, and one HELL of a lot of big plot-based setup. Also, it's FrUKUS.
1. Chapter 1

_Oh Lord, how belated this is._

_So the original was done in June... and I started this one in August. It's not too bad, admittedly, a gap between the two... but; It's relieving that I'm finally getting this on the way._

_Unlike Our Scandalous Rabbit - this one isn't PWP. I'm hopefully offering what could be a much more realistic scenario._

_I've got plans that have been split into thirty two points separate points. ...I've done 32 pages so far... and I'm only on point six. Darn. I've got a lot of work to do..._

_Regardless; please do enjoy!_

* * *

Arthur licked his lips delectably with the intention to replenish his plump and parched asset with moisture as his throat ran irritably dry. The Brit lifted the soft fabric of his silky sheets closer, slipping further in the tunnel of strand that he wove himself in every night up to the level of just underneath his shiningly vibrant emerald eyes. His warm breath filtered through the gaps in the sheets, through giving heat that touched his bitterly blushing cheeks with comfort as he pressed them close against his skin.

His body had already given the illusion of scorching heights internally as he continued to flush a shade of scarlet red that he never knew was possible for a man of his porcelain skin tone calibre to reach, yet the warm of the almost hyperventilating breath evacuating his lungs reminded him that he was merely human in his experience of the devastating tragedy named as Love.

The air around him was refreshing; a mild temperature in actuality, but because of his slightly flushed body, it felt like ice cubes drizzled delicately over the small instances of exposed skin peaking out from the golden silk. Complaining ever so slightly in his now lucid sleep, low groan from the bottom of his throat escaping, Arthur wondered when he had scampered underneath the covers at all.

The last thing he remembered, before the sun poured down at him through the thick bedroom curtains and filled his eyelids with red, was collapsing from absolute exhaustion. Before that – well, Arthur found himself smirking in guilty pleasure; it certainly was an eventful night. Conquering fears never before exploited. It gave him a renewed sense of smugness and vigour that just as unnatural from someone doing such a deed.

It was foolish, absolutely barmy; to consider that doing something so little as making himself orgasm under his own jurisdictions would give him such a feeling of high self-regard. But it did. He felt fantastic.

Sucking in a breath, Arthur shifted to the side – mumbling a whole load of early morning nonsensical rubbish, and letting his slightly-spoilt linens smoothly accentuate the curve in his hips. When his knee brushed against something feeling foreign, Arthur initially ignored it. It was only when a slight flinch that didn't belong to him made him jump, that the Englishman realised that something was wrong. He didn't quite comprehend just _how_ wrong, until his eyes snapped open and Arthur found his vision absorbed in the shimmering sheen of golden blond hair – far too long and attached to someone else's head to be his at all.

Needless to say, Arthur panicked. The Briton bolted up in bed; silk covers tossing off of him in a hurry, exposing his pallid and naked skin to the world. And what a world it was – waking to find that his imagination seemed to have been suddenly flawed. Why, for instance, would he possibly find someone who looked so realistically like the Frenchman Arthur was masturbating to the night before appear in his bed the next morning? Staring, Arthur noticed just how intricately the sleeping form in front of him was breathing – chest heaving up and down in slow succession – and how detailed every single cell on the man's body were. Each little chest hair being touched by the light exactly as it should.

There was no way that his imagination was so detailed and refined. Without blinking and his heart oscillating wildly in his chest, to the point of aching horrifically, Arthur draped his eyes over the creature's frankly… well… _magnificent_ body. Arthur felt himself swallowing, gazing at the slight tan on his back – no doubt acquired in the Southern French sun, basking in the Rivera – and following the line of his spine all the way down to those hips. God, those naked hips!

It must have been a trick. The fairies must have cast a spell on him to make him see something that was just not possible. His imagination was not that strong, no matter how many times he tried to fool himself. Last night, although the figures were physically shaped and the vocals were just perfect, they were not anywhere near this solid. It was the fairies – yes… that made sense. Arthur deluded himself into thinking. Soon, he would close his eyes and the beautiful illusion would kindly fuck off like it should. Spare his sanity – or what was left of it, at least.

Closing his eyes, Arthur counted from ten. Lips moved ever so slightly as the numbers descended. Internally, he swore he could feel the bed shift and become lighter as the illusion went away. Good, good. It was a clever joke. He would have to pester those little nymphs later for it. They almost gave him such a shock. His heart still hadn't quite recovered – pattering heavily in his chest, trying to erupt. But then, the heart did not lie.

A slight squeeze and warmth flooding downwards made the Englishman cease at two. Snapping his eyes back open and dipped his pupils down to his lap, the pressure in his chest suddenly increased tenfold.

The illusion groped him. Hand on cock, feeling-up action. Oh _God_.

It was not… It… It was not an illusion. Not even the fairies would create something so—so forward and vulgar, even if it was for a joke. Striving with mischief as pixies were; they would never downgrade themselves to such a derogatory act. Arthur's eyes widened so much that he almost forgot to slap away the hand raping his privacy.

Oh _fuck_!

Forced to attention; the Briton's mind practically spurting with question marks and exclamation. For one – how in the World did Francis get there? Secondly – why was he in his bed? And thirdly, for the love of the British Empire, the Queen, and all that he had ever considered as remotely Holy… why the hell was he naked? Arthur's eyes shot frantically around him, gazing at the condition of the room he had left in his disgrace.

Besides him, the vibrators that Arthur rocked back and forth on last night had disappeared from the spot he dumped them on. But the rose tinted hand lotion was still there, abandoned right at the bottom of the bed. Evidence of that was left on his sticky fingers. The patch where Arthur had soiled the covers in event of his eventual orgasm was still vaguely present. The pain in his hips had not gone away – aching still after the double penetration stretched his inner borders so impossibly far…

Last night did happen. It did. But where were the vibrators? And why, oh dear Lord and Heaven above, was he not alone? Scampering backwards and away from the Frenchman in shock, Arthur ceased in his place when his back collided with something else solid – or to be correct, something rather fleshy, but very much _there_. He froze in his place; his eyes feeling like they could be knocked out and find themselves tumbling away like marbles out of his sockets. A hand dragged forwards and draped itself on the soft curve of his hip, rubbing soothing circles into the tensed skin.

There was no way. There just was no way that this was happening and that was not, _not_, what he thought it wa—

"—Morning, sleeping beauty." The unmistakeably American voice rung out, making Arthur go rigid with confusion. Arthur's breath came out as little more than a squeaking choke.

He couldn't believe it for a second… but all of the evidence was right there. The accent was ever so slightly touched with Southern charm – just like a certain person's does when he doesn't get enough sleep or is deprived of coffee for far too long. The skin that Arthur could feel brushing against his back felt hard and suspiciously muscular. Even the hand that circled his hips was the right colour; a Miami sun-kissed look about it, as well as slightly rough from that DIY work the twat just _insisted_ on doing by himself…

"A-Al…fred," Arthur panted out, totally gob smacked beyond his mind's comprehension.

"That's me." The third body shifted, pressing itself closer to Arthur's own. A touch on the back of his leg identified all too well that the body occupying the space behind him was just as naked as he and Francis. Strong arms quickly wrapped themselves around his waist, touching him sickeningly intimately – heat bursting forth through his skin in sweltering jolts. Arthur found himself gagging, body and mind shutting down to an absolute blank as Alfred's teeth grazed his ear. "Don't abuse the name too much, baby. I want it to stay hot every time you say it…"

Hot breath poured against his skin, sending shivers down his spine that just were too non-existent the night before to believe. A headache was beginning to brew and stir within his skull. A sensation that was not indifferent from hangovers that the Englishman was just too depressingly used to.

"What's wrong, darlin'?" The American groaned out, morning voice being far too low and sexy for Arthur's liking. Did he mean to drive him over the edge right on the spot with little more than a nonchalant whisper? "-You're still sore, right? …Damn, sorry Arthie, but Francis was just hogging you far too much. I wanted to have a go m'self, and I couldn't have just let you finish, coul—_Ga-ahck_!"

Alfred's words were cut off far too short by Arthur's sudden shift, whipping around and elbowing the American straight in the chest with so much force that the man was tossed out of bed. With a thud and a well-placed declaration of pain/shock; Alfred watched questionably as the Brit practically flew over the top of him and ran over towards the closet at the front of the room. Arthur's legs buckled at the end – pain no doubt making each and every step far too shaky for the veteran nation to hold his weight. The American frowned deeply, lips pouting, as he watched Arthur recover and scramble around desperately at the bottom – searching for a certain box of his finest and kinkiest items. A small smirk cropped up on his sleek boyish features.

Finding it quickly, he scrambled to enter in the correct code – 6221 – tossed off the lid and proceeded to search through. Toys and sexual aids were flung here and there besides him as he frantically tried to find what he was looking for; the last piece of evidence – the only thing stopping him from realising that his little fantasy was nothing short of absolute truth. His heart fell like a stone to the pit of his stomach when his eyes gazed upon what he was unsuspecting to see. There, right at the bottom, were two suspicious shapes, wrapped up in kitchen towel. He didn't need to unravel them to know what they were.

Oh, how he could have just died.

"Why-…." Arthur began shakily, hands stirring just as much as his voice. He forced himself to his feet, knees wanting to buckle as pain seared through his crotch and filled the nerves surrounding. He stared at the bed, the post-sex stains, Francis's sleeping body, and then finally to the American – trying to make sense out of what must have happened. No matter how much he tried to remember; the night was not filling in with any details other than him alone, impaling himself to the thoughts of two men he loved and lusted after far too prominently. But everything was pointing in an entirely different direction.

"Why are the vibrators… why are yo-… _what_?" Arthur shouted, hands finding themselves clutched in his hair. The temptation to pull and expect the sharp sting to bring back memories he supposedly lost was exceedingly great. "What the bloody blazes—I mean… ju-just... what… Oh God, what the hell happened last—!"

"Woah, woah, woah… Hey, Arthie, there's a certain word that you really need right now, and that word is 'calm'! Slow down a minute, space invader!" Alfred blurted out. He got himself up off of the floor and clad his glasses, watching the Englishman warily – as if he was expecting the nation to suddenly attack him at any given moment. He approached tentatively with his hands held up in the universal 'I surrender' gesture. Arthur scoffed, realising just how correct he was to stay defensive. Frustration and confusion were threatening to make him act wild.

"S-Slow down? How the hell can I 'slow' fucking 'down'?" Arthur ranted, raving in the nonsensical banter. "Alfred, what happened last night? You better tell me or I'll shove a pineapple so far u—bugger, you're _naked_…!"

Arthur stopped in his place, heart thudding so much that he felt like he could collapse at any moment. His shocked expression turned to something of some awe, mouth hung ever so slightly agape while he rather perversely took the American's appearance in. Stone the crows; Alfred looked even better than he thought he would. The slight tan he harboured flourished all throughout his skin suited his shape magnificently, working in compliment with that lifeguard-muscle and straw coloured blond locks - an even and blessed tone that reminded him of the taste of butterscotch, and made him feel far too jealous. It was unfair that Alfred, and Francis for that matter, didn't burn like a scalded peach when the sun came anywhere near them.

"Arthur, are you paying atten—?"

The Englishman stared, imagining those toned arms touching his body – fingers exploring intimately and driving him into eccentric pleasure and ecstasy, mouth working wonders, that dusty pink cock pushing in and slickly pulling out and making him blush, moan, _beg_, and weak at the _knees_, and _oh…_! Arthur gasped, feeling the pain jolt as a reminder up his spine.

It was not an illusion, was it? He already established that. Alfred, his Alfred – his sweet, beautiful, and sexy Alfred – was in front of him wearing bloody fuck all. Naked. Freaking naked. Bare and barren and stripped and-and… Francis was in his bed. The vibrators weren't used. His body was. Two and two equalled four. He did have that big, impossibly big, length between his legs and… white, hot bliss… and gosh. They did it. They did it, they did it. _It._ Bugger, Shakespeare, and Knickerbocker glories…! They had—

"—Sex. Glorious, profound and awesome sex," Alfred announced proudly, hand on hip, expression absolutely amused. Stepping next to the Englishman and placing a reassuring hand on the narrow and pale shoulder; the American laughed when he realised that the other nation's line of sight was not exactly prudent. He took Arthur's chin in his hand and tilted that pretty little face upwards. "Er… Arthur, my face is up here."

"This isn't true," Arthur decided, rather determinedly, to tell Alfred once his place of vision had been fixed to somewhere a lot more prudent. Arthur wondered whether it was still a trick of his imagination; he already mentally established the night before that he was good at imaging this sort of thing – those voices he heard were just so real, so perfect, and he found himself even now with his stomach filling with heat at the thought. Surely, maybe, he could have conjured embodiments of Francis and Alfred even now? But, hark; they were just so perfect; surreally pristine. Gazing at Alfred's face, he could see the slightly opened pores in detail, little slight bristles peaking at the bottom of his chin from not having a chance yet to shave that morning, the glistening in his eyes that seemed to spark to life when their eyes connected… how on Earth could something so intricate be a lie?

"Arthur, it is." Alfred laughed, smiling down at the other.

His fingers were still lingering on Arthur's chin, he realised, as they stared in a way that could only be truly described as longingly at each other. The American opposite seemed to realise as well that he had been nurturing Arthur in his fingers for far longer than he should. Either of them looked disturbed by the fact. If Alfred was awkward, his facial expression did not betray it. Smiling at the man besides him warmly, he moved in for the kiss; lips so close now that they could brush if the angle was right.

Instead, Alfred got a swift punch straight in the stomach. With a shout, the American doubled over in pain - body winded, lungs tensed in his chest and his breath being quickly stolen - and his equivalent dashed away a few feet - expression blaring with a variety of emotions flashing through his mind. Confusion, of course, was being pre-dominant; although Alfred would not have misplaced that anger bleating away under his skin. The way Arthur's left eye twitched slightly betrayed the Englishman's frustration far too well.

"Are you _stupid_?" Arthur scathed through clenched teeth, watching the other as if he expected him to turn into some sort of horrific monster at any second - connotations of disgust clearly in his body language and tone. "You got me drunk and touched me, d-didn't you? God! ...You molesting bastards!"

"E-Excuse me?" Alfred breathed, still recovering from having his breath knocked right out of him. Arthur clenched his fists, and glared at him until his shoulder began to shake. The American was surprised to see that there was a sort of pain in Arthur's eyes that he didn't identify before. It was simply nothing more than the sensations of regret. In Arthur's mind, Alfred remembered, they were nothing more than apparitions that assisted him into an orgasmic high – though the evidence around him was far too compelling otherwise. There was nothing that would, should, have blurred the boundaries between them – except maybe drugs or alcohol, and strong stuff at that. Arthur did already feel a headache beating mercilessly in the back of his skull, battling as strongly as the pulse echoing through his heart.

"I mean-That's the only way this could be explained! Do you really, truly, believe that I would get up this next morning and not blame you two for what must have happened? Honestly!" Arthur continued. Their eyes met for but a moment before the Englishman scoffed angrily and gave an abrupt turn, pushing the closet doors open again. Without looking at what he was getting, he dragged out a pair of trousers and started shoving them onto his naked exterior. Even from behind, Alfred could tell that Arthur's eyebrows were knitted together in frustration. Of which, Alfred knew quickly, definitely wouldn't do.

"Wa-wait, Arthur, look!" Alfred replied, scrambling to his feet. The American got up off of his knees and grabbed the Englishman's shoulder. Arthur retaliated immediately, shooting his arm around to hit him in the same place as before. Alfred was smart enough not to let that happen twice. He snapped his other hand up, grabbing the Brit by the wrist. "Listen—It's not like that! We woul—I would never do something so detrimental to you!"

Fuck Francis, he can dig himself out of his own grave. It was his idea anyhow.

"What _is_ it like then, Alfred?" The retort snapped back, gnashing practically at his throat. Arthur tried pulling his arm back and out of the American's strong grip; and stumbled backwards, having no expected it to come so easily loose. He watched the other nation with hyper-critical eyes bearing so accusingly that the word 'liar' could have been burnt into his skin.

Said American faltered for a moment, trying to quickly come up with some sort of excuse. 'Well, Arthur, we were just being voyeurs in that little pantry room of yours next door by watching you masturbate; and so we decided that it would be totally hilarious if we hit everything and got in bed with you, just on a whim. I mean, really, it's not like you'd get creeped out of anything. Nope' – doesn't exactly cut it.

Alfred mentally kicked himself that he didn't realise that Arthur would take it negatively. He just swore that the Englishman would be happy – satisfied and potentially ecstatic – that last night did happen. Which it didn't, really, but the implication was still the same.

"Well...?"

He realised that he had been quiet for far too long when he heard Arthur moving again; zipping up the trousers he managed to get his hands on, hissing at the feeling of going commando – which Alfred would have found absolutely hot, if it weren't for the fact that Arthur clearly was trying to get out of there as soon as possible. Tossing a glance over his shoulder, seeing that Francis was being typically useless in what could have been considered a miniature battlefield of life, he opened his mouth to object hurriedly. Only to be immediately interjected.

"I thought so," Arthur scoffed as he found a shirt, internal organs feeling like they were going to turn into mush. Nerves were jumping up and down within his body like lines on a graph, though the ache in his lower body was definitely the most prominent. The Briton shook his head with a distinct lack of mirth, atmosphere radiating tension almost solidly around the ground on which he stood. He turned around abruptly, glaring at the American hard enough to make the other go rigid and forget to breathe.

"I thought you were better than that, Alfred. Turns out you and Francis are just one and the same. You've always followed whatever he says blindly, don't you? 'Don't worry, Al. Let's go break his heart. It'll be c'est – fucking – _fantastique_'!" He growled. "What else did the two of you do to me that I can't remember, Alfred? ... Well!"

Alfred didn't know what to say. His mouth hung rather stupidly agape. Arthur narrowed his eyes, shoving the shirt haphazardly over his shoulders with an agitated shrug.

"Did you thrust your cocks down my throat and laugh about how I looked like some wanton whore? ...What about when I told you that I loved you? 'I love you Arthur', 'It'll be okay, _baby_'. Were you just lying and pleasing yourself internally about how utterly pathetic I am? Well... did you!" Arthur prompted. The American looked up at him, pupils dilated and thin. "Speak to me, Alfred! What the _fuck_ did you do to me?"

Seeing the American warble silently, lips opening and closing like a beached fish; Arthur seethed at him, shaking his head. His own lips had curled back so far in frustration that they had formed little more than a thin lie. Teeth bit so hard that he could practically taste the blood.

"How _dare_ you." Arthur spat out, taking a deep breath – heavy enough for his vocal chords to rattle upon exhale.

"Get the _hell_ out of my house before I call the police."

With that, Arthur promptly left the room – slamming the door behind him.

* * *

A sudden hand on his shoulder made the Frenchman jolt; eyes flickering open far too quickly, light pouring immediately into retinas with far more intensity than should be possible at God-knows-when in the morning. The blond soon was wincing away afterwards. An audible groan left his throat as he tried to slink back underneath the covers. If there were a million words to describe the wonder (or horror, as it may be) of Francis Bonnefoy – none of them would have suggested 'morning-person' in the slightest.

"Francis! Hey, France - get the hell up! Quick, please, come on... come on, come on, _come on_!"

Francis squinted, shielding his eyes underneath the covers until everything was no longer blurry and the light didn't sting him more horribly than wasps when disturbed. And frankly, he could identify with them very well. Nobody should be expected to be sociable at such a horrifically early hour. As the hand grabbed him again and shook, voice pouring into his ears and waking him up properly, the Frenchman shifted over and glared groggily at whoever was touching him. His eyes widened when he recognised the innocent face of the American. He was even more surprised to see it lit up with anguish – and was that panic settled in his cerulean eyes?

"_Zut alors_... Alfred, I hope you do know just how horribly I wake in the mornings when I am rudely interrupted from my beauty sleep? Relax, _cher_." Francis complained, noting the deep quality of his voice. It really was the only benefit to being alive in the mornings at all. Pinching the bridge of his nose and wrinkling his expression to help coax the muscles into waking up properly. He sat up in the bed, sighing deeply to himself.

"How on Earth can I rela-? Look, Francis, it's Arthur..." Alfred said quickly, backing off about a foot or so to give the Frenchman his personal space. The American shuffled nervously on the spot, shifting his weight uneasily on his heels. The Frenchman rolled his eyes at the American's state of undress – as beautiful as it was, that nicely formed body and complimenting skin tone.

"Hm? What about _Anglet_-..." Francis paused, looking around him. He instantly recognised that he was definitely nowhere near his home, though a small weight felt like it lifted itself off of his heart when he realised exactly where they were. Nobody less was so vain to have golden silk bed-sheets. A slight smile cracked on his plumped lips, and he wetted them as he remembered the events of the night before. Though the brief feeling of joy disappeared when he considered the condition of the place around him – closet door still hung open, crate and toys tossed randomly on the floor, ruffled sheets next to him. Not to mention a particularly missing host.

"I presume, by your distress and our lovely little rabbit's absence... that you completely screwed up. Didn't you? Did he figure out the facade?"

"No, he didn't figure it out. It's worse than that!" Alfred said quickly, brushing his fingers rapidly through his hair – repeatedly – in a sort of nervous reaction. He had a crooked, confused smile on his face that proved he had simply no idea what he was supposed to do. Francis scowled in response, and gestured for him to elaborate.

"He thinks we did sleep with him, but, he's convinced that we weren't doing to because we love him. Arthur thinks we used and manipulated him-God, Francis, what are we going to do? He told me to get, quote, 'the hell out of my house before I call the police'. I don't know about you, Mr. Used-to-this, but I've got panic bells alarming here!"

"I thought this might happen..." Francis sighed, rubbing his temples. He shrugged, and went to fix his hair with his hands – he loathed it when his waxy blond locks got tangled; another scornful threat of the mornings. He'd need a shower sometime soon, he deemed. Alfred looked scandalised.

"How can you be so relaxed? Francis - he thinks that we fucked him because he was being easy! He accused us of forcing him to-to suck us off-an-and, y-y'know, all sorts of obscenities and everything! I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love my-In his-Oh damn it, this isn't the time to think about it!" He bleated out, shaking his head and beginning to pace around the free space in the room. He kicked a cock ring out of the way of his path in frustration. "We've got to move, Francis!"

Francis merely watched him with an eyebrow bent in consideration. Barely satisfied with the condition of his hair – he was honest; he knew he was a critically vain sort. You had to be, if you wanted to have experience like he did – he rubbed his chin in thought.

"Hm. That was awfully rude, don't you think?"

"Okay, okay! I trailed off a little, but we don't have time to imagine! Come on, Francis, we've gotta think o'somethin'!" Alfred spat back frantically. Francis sighed, realising that the American had entirely missed the point. He patted the mattress next to him, inviting the other over. The other nation looked a little conflicted for the moment – tossing a glance over his shoulder and towards the door – but came over back to the bedside regardless; plopping himself down next to the Frenchman, cross-legged. He fidgeted nervously until Francis moved his hand over to stop him.

"I was talking about Arthur. If I'm not jumping to conclusions, I'm rather certain that what he said was really an insult to your nature, _Amerique_." He said, glancing over at him with a slyly evaluative expression on his face. The Frenchman was many, many centuries older than the American – and as wise as his years, despite his awful reputation to being the sex ambassador of the world. Not that his title was a cause for grief in his mind. He wore it proudly. "Are you sure that you are not angry about that?"

"Insult? Whatcha mean, Franny?" Alfred replied, glancing up like some hopelessly lost puppy. It was clear that his mind was pulling a blank, and Francis sighed. Did he really have to spell everything out for the American to read the atmosphere and get the point?

"Please don't call me that-" He crinkled his nose in disgust at the little nickname the other gave him on a whim. Clearing his throat, coughing into his fist, he willingly continued. "-Well, for example - he seems to have gotten you and I completely wrong. You are - _what was i_-Ah, yes - a hero, _non_? He seems to be mistaking you for a simple villain. Do you think he just has no faith? Aren't you angry that he judged you out of character?"

Alfred shuffled uncomfortably. It really did remind the Frenchman that Arthur's beloved ex-colony was still akin to the mentality of a young child, at times.

"...Er... well, I was a little offended that he would think I'd use him like that. I mean, I know that his people haven't been looking too favourably on the power-sharing for the special relationship an' all... but he's never complained before. A-And... y'know, I've never hurt him if I could help it! I swear!"

"Perhaps, _Amerique_, you should remind him of that fact."

"Y-Yeah, you're right. But - he doesn't exactly want to talk to us right now. I can't just walk up to him - he'll castrate me with his bare hands or something! And personally, I like having my totally sexy country singer voice. I don't want to be a choir boy, Francis. I'm not freaking suicidal!" The American complained back, tossing his arms into the air with frustration. His lower lip quivered, betraying just how worked up he was feeling inside.

He knew he could understand where Francis was coming from – but the idea of just strolling over to Arthur and going 'Hello! I know we totally pulled a blank, but, y'know, it's not fair what you said – cause I'm totally not like that. And like, it's really horrible of you to think I'd be like that. I love you, and although I'd love to dance in your pants... I don't want to fuck you just cause! So, can we make up now?' ...So unrealistic.

"Forgive me if I am mistaken; but we are still in his house, correct?"

"Yeah - but - what does that have to do with-"

"-It means, _cher_, he has not called the police yet. Nor will he. It's an empty threat. Surely you should recognise one by now? Especially when, no doubt, he thinks that he was the one that let us into his home. Which means we are perfectly obliged to be here." He said, shaking his head at the oblivious face the American was pulling. Francis scoffed, suppressing the urge to ruffle his hair. "Really, _Amerique_, you need to do your homework. Arthur prides himself on being a gentleman, you know. Though I have no met a gentleman quite as vulgar as he..."

"And that means that...?" Alfred said, looking adorably hopeful. He had noticeably stopped shuffling in his place, and the suggestion that he had been comforted made the Frenchman smile.

"By virtue of the fact that he hasn't ushered us out himself, means that subconsciously he is willing to change his mind." Francis told him, nodding. "Trust me, _Amerique_, I've known this man for the worse part of a thousand years. He is pliable when upset - accepting to have himself proved wrong. You just have to force him to listen."

"That's all?" Alfred said, looking eager to get back to Arthur as soon as possible.

It was obvious, by the look of the way his eyes gleamed that his mind was whirling with ideas of what to say and what to do. Francis only hoped that the man had the confidence to say them out loud. When it came to him standing up in front of a crowd and calling out his opinions and thoughts – Alfred was clearly the best in his league. But more personal things, he knew, were much more difficult for him. It was he that had come to Francis, after all, looking for help to woo the man that captivated his heart. Good thing, truly, that Francis had been expecting him for a very, very long time.

"That is all. Go on, Alfred... don't stop until your opinion is heard. _Capito_?" He said, beaming in reply.

"Got it!" The American let out past his grin. He scrambled off of the bed and onto his feet and towards the doorway. After he got his hand on the doorknob; Francis found himself mentally laughing, as Alfred winced at the realisation that maybe going around Arthur's home wearing nothing but his birthday suit probably was not a good start to a potential apology. He found his pants on the floor and tucked himself in, being careful not to get the zipper stuck, and gave an awkward smile back to the blond on the bed before sprinting it out of the door.

Left behind, Francis smirked callously to himself. The man let out an adoring sigh, resting his chin on his hand. The thought of Alfred's enthusiasm weighed wonderfully on his mind. "...Ah, you're so sweet. Like a puppy. I wish, _cher, _that you were possibly less eager for his affection. I would have enjoyed tasting you more than a fine rosé, I find. Young and fruity. Perfect for appetisers, mm?"

He chuckled, turning his head to stare out of the window with satisfaction written all over his face. Everything was going just how he hoped. One or two bumps along the way, he evaluated, but the hiccups were not likely to last too long. He could tell that it wouldn't be long now.

"Still, you are my rival. And there is plenty of time for us to battle, _non_? Ah... How relieving it is, that you listen to my every command. You're so easy, _cher_. So easy. Mm, yes, things are falling into place. As _Angleterre_ would put it... 'Bleeding marvellous'."

* * *

_So, there's chapter one for you~_

_Thoughts so far?_


	2. Chapter 2

_NOTE_

_The beginning of this chapter reflects on Alfred's views. It contains some religious mentions and views, so I thought I should point it out. Oh, and there is a little bit of head-canon involved._

_It returns to the present when it jumps back to Arthur's perspective. :D._

* * *

As soon as they found themselves stepping forwards, past that gigantic oak doorway and onto the stone floor tiles; Alfred could tell that they were in a place of harmonious sanctity and devoutness. The church parish was small but yet grand in the young American's eyes.

The little child devoured himself within the appearance of the place – stone flooring, high arches ascending towards the heavenly skies above, stained glass spinning beams of light and colour upon the scene, and benches standing attention and halted towards the front; where the holy trinkets stood.

The altar itself was carved rather immaculately. The eyes looked so emotive, the granite hair seemed to be flowing in non-existent wind, and the soft expression his face wore seemed almost scarily realistic. His melancholic smile rained down them and touched their hearts.

When the small golden-haired boy spoke to the man holding his hand like a loving parent, the other nation proudly knelt down and whispered into his ear. The person there – created in granite and nailed to wood – was the son of a very important thing, he had said. It was something that nobody understood, but believed in all the same.

Alfred didn't understand at the time what that all meant. How could someone believe in something that wasn't proved to exist? In his young, childish opinion, he thought it was far too strange. All the adults, and the Kingdom of England himself, seemed to absorb themselves to appreciating a force that was silent; a force that they were not allowed to see and sometimes felt betrayed by.

Many times, Alfred had heard men cursing the skies – or saw them begging for forgiveness from something named as 'God'. Alfred found it ridiculous ten times over. How could they have been devoted to something that seemed to bring them so much internal guilt and misery?

They took their seats, and the first service in that church began. As Alfred's first, he was fascinated. The benches they sat on were cushioned but still were hard, and he could not possibly understand the meaning of the hymns Arthur insisted that he joined in singing to. Lamb of God, Kingdom of Heaven... so on, so forth, and the little American found himself chaotically lost.

Upon complaint, Arthur either laughed it off or told him sternly to be quiet in conflicting times. The priests were friendly and had an air of wistfulness about them that further confused the young boy. Why – for instance – were they so apparently all-knowing about things that happened over fifteen hundred years ago?

And what was this force called 'God'?

That force, Arthur explained, could give and could take away. When things are taken away from people, they grieve. But it is only because they do not pay tribute, thanks and appreciation, to what they had removed that they were stolen away from them in the first place. Therefore, if there was something one appreciated with the entirety of one's heart; they should pray for its protection – so that they do not lose it. Such was the way of the world. If one neglects something then it is easily lost.

Another thing that had confused Alfred at the time was why, at the end, all of the people there in the parish knelt down on their knees and buried their heads close to their hands. At first, Alfred thought they were all suddenly in mourning. Arthur included.

A kind partaker broke his silence and spoke to Alfred to settle his curious little mind. They explained to the boy about the action they were doing; a little ritual known in the church as 'prayer'.

Prayer is a form of communication, a way of talking to God or to the saints – he said - a humble and sincere request, or an utterance in praise. Or, alternatively; a supplication of confession to the sins a person had committed. It could be a plea for help or a whisper for forgiveness, as well as a way of thanksgiving for what one has received throughout the years.

Alfred asked his adoptive brother after the ceremony was over what Arthur had prayed for. The Englishman had laughed, the American remembered, and smiled widely. "My welfare, for one. My King and people for another. But I'll tell you a secret, my sweet little America."

Secret?

"I pray for you the most."

Was that ever a secret?

Questions began to fill the young American's mind from that point onwards. He realised that Arthur was possibly obsessed with protecting himself against grievance. But mostly, he was undoubtedly afraid. Afraid that Alfred would one day be taken away from him. Afraid that he would lose something – the one thing – that was most important to him in the world.

Even then Arthur was internally terrified. He was absolutely convinced that he second he stopped paying tribute to him, stopping paying attention to him – that Alfred would be taken away. Good things never happen to those that are wicked.

He remembered once. Arthur had come to visit him for the first time in months. The American may have been little, but he was not blind, deaf and dumb. He knew of the wars progressing elsewhere in the world. The Austrian war of succession, for one, was raging in the East – far beyond the corners of the New World.

Although his childish heart yearned for the Englishman to see him far more; he was not the most selfish child to walk this Earth. It made him bitter to not see Arthur in a long time, but he understood. He knew that Arthur cared for him. He knew that much of the warfare Arthur engaged himself within was to protect Alfred, America, and keep him underneath the Briton's wing.

The moment that Arthur had stepped inside, Alfred had noticed that the man was a complete mess. Alfred didn't know what it was at the time, but there was sticky and concealed red stuff in the Englishman's hair. His lip was split and his clothes unkempt and gruff, but yet he still fought to maintain his composure. He had smiled. He had told him that he 'needed to see' him. The connotations that Arthur had to see his face to hold himself on his own two feet – to stop himself from giving in and crumbling to the pressure – was not lost.

Alfred tried to ask Arthur what had happened, but the Englishman never took his badly placed hints. The question was avoided constantly much to Alfred's chagrin. But the young American was far smarter than he ever got credit for. He could tell that something bad at the time had happened, and it made him feel sick. Just looking into the hollowness in Arthur's eyes betrayed it all. The child understood why Arthur never spoke about it as they had tea and supper, or again as Arthur tried to have the boy explain to him what he had learnt within his absence.

It was natural for someone to disguise their worry and pain in front of the one they wanted to protect. Indeed, it hurt Alfred to think. So he disguised his grief as well. He did not dare show the Englishman that there was, undoubtedly, something wrong. If there was anything that Arthur's attitude had taught him over the years; it was to be enthusiastic about his ideas, his views and his excitement... but, his feelings were a different story. Just like Arthur, Alfred had grown up to push his frustration and upset deeper inside – to hide them away, and be ashamed of that negativity.

The sands of an hourglass had hardly fallen when Alfred was tucked into bed, with that split-lip smile and false pretences to fuel him into a grieved, frustrated sleep. Although as Arthur left his bedside and retreated back downstairs, Alfred had quietly followed not long after. The second he heard sobs, he had become scared. It was a natural reaction, of course, to hearing the voice of one's mentor cry; pain or panic in their voice.

Peaking from the doorway at his beloved brother nation, Alfred discovered it. Hearing Arthur cry, cursing the Heavens and the so proclaimed 'God' for what he supposedly had lost, or even had been forced into; Alfred felt his heart become struck. It could have been a sense of grief, maybe – a feeling of regret knowing that the Englishman had driven himself to desperate tears just with the strain of protecting him. But Alfred soon evaluated it to have been different.

He hated it - absolutely loathed the thought. If Arthur damaged himself, mentally and physically, trying to protect him – then why, on Earth, did he even bother? It hurt them both to see the Briton in pain. But instead of being sad for his apparent brother, Alfred had felt angry. It seemed pointless. The Englishman was convinced, evidently, that he could not communicate with the rest of the world without becoming tainted against him.

Maybe Arthur was right. The man, his supreme Empire, was not revered with the rest of the world. It would have rubbed off on the child with ease. But that was not what was the most insulting. Alfred wanted to show Arthur that he did not need his protection. That he was young, yes, but also strong. He did not need somebody to stand up in front of him and defend him against everyone else who wanted to own his lands or steal his worth. He did not need to be sheltered.

And then, he realised something that had never left him throughout the several hundred years of his life. He was trapped. He wanted to be free.

So become free was exactly what he did.

There was no point cotton-coating everything. The Revolutionary war was not because Alfred loved Arthur; but because he wanted to be free. It was for his own benefit - and the benefit of those residing within him - that he broke away. He was not sorry, in the slightest. They all knew it was better this way. Arthur included.

But Alfred quickly realised. It was not the proclaimed 'God' that had taken him away from the Englishman; but it was he, himself. Nobody was pulling the strings to his feelings. Nothing visible was tearing him away from Arthur, and certainly not something physical forcing him to act as he did. But still, he had heard the Briton pant and cry afterwards – while they were surrounded by blackened skies and rain drenching the fabrics of their red and blue coats – over 'why'.

Why had God betrayed him? Did he not pray his thanks or love him enough?

It was then that Alfred's vision of God was finalised. Take it as you will, religion and the sort; but to Alfred himself, it felt that this religious entity could have been symbolic. Heaven was euphoria – a happiness, satisfaction, and fulfilment. The red strings of fate that tied people together, tangling the threads and forcing edges to fray, was representative of exactly what Alfred came to understand.

It was a connection between them; something that couldn't be explained but was truly there. Nothing had to be one hundred percent physical to exist, he came to understand. There had to be a reason, for instance, why they had been put on that Earth. Why they became who they were. Why they met one another.

It was nonsensical – yes – but there was no true explanation for it. Alfred found himself absorbed in the idea; the whole origins of religion, origins of their lives and why things turned out like they did. He studied; Bible, Qur'an, other holy books and stories of old – desperately trying to find a purpose to it all. He looked to the skies, wondering if there were other means of life out there on other planets, or where the so called Heavens were.

Without realising it, Alfred had fell prey to what had seeming captivated thousands – millions even – of people in the past. He managed to make himself religious in a way; cursing the same God when he was hurt or upset. Praising the same God when he felt there was something worth celebrating, and pleading to the same God when he needed help. Like many, he was never sure if there was something there to listen to him – in fact, he did strongly doubt it – but he felt fulfilled in believing so.

There was something now to blame, or to praise; or to hope understood him when nobody else could or even tried. Alfred was a curious boy and even more curious man; and his people reflected it. Not only was he one of the most openly religious nations, but also he was the most conspiring to discovery.

The theory of evolution came and Alfred was – if somewhat disturbed at first – fascinated. The theory of aliens excited him desperately. Reaching out of the Earth and touching the starry skies was his dream becoming true. Alfred defined himself on beliefs sparked from what that certain Englishman had taught him hundreds of years ago – even without realising it.

Alfred was never sure when he had begun to fall in love with his ex-coloniser in the first place. Perhaps it was indeed stemmed from his life when he was young; some sort of Freudian affair, no doubt, with a child falling in love with that which raised him. From the very moment they began to spend time together, Alfred had shaped himself into a mould that Arthur had constantly solidified. His language, fighting spirit, and self were a combination of appreciation for what Arthur had him learn and rebellion against it. Perhaps Alfred had always appreciated that. His young heart really did feel hurt whenever he saw Arthur pained.

It was only after the revolutionary war was long over, admittedly, that Alfred ever abandoned adolescence enough to realise that there was more than brotherly feelings residing there inside of him whenever he thought of that certain Englishman. It took even longer to recognise it as love.

But just as he had subconsciously learnt from Arthur that his true feelings should be pressed aside, to maintain composure in front of other people for as long as possible without breaking; Alfred managed to hide the fact completely. Even when he wanted to take that man into his arms and press their smooth lips together so much that he couldn't bare it – Alfred managed to push through.

Eventually, however, it became far too much. Like almost all infatuations. But Alfred could tell it was different from something simple, like a school girl's crush or some simple bound of lust. Though he hid his thoughts behind a goofy smile; an apparent mentality that showed he couldn't read the atmosphere or just didn't pay attention anywhere nearly enough... Alfred could interpret his own feelings far too clearly. He was smart – yet never credited for it. He did not, for instance, become one of the world's superpowers for absolutely nothing.

Alfred became to love Arthur just like a kid would do with their childhood sweethearts. They were split apart, but eventually they found themselves together in close quart once more; fighting alongside each other. Naturally, the part of him that did deeply miss the Englishman since his independence dominated him whenever he saw that man smile - as rare a basis that was. He realised he missed the time they spent together, seeing him and making him grin like he did back then. Then that feeling developed into a want to kiss, a want to touch and tell him that he was worth his private affection.

But unlike the past, he was no longer trapped. Alfred was free to want to be with the Englishman all he wanted – and he was free, consequentially, to walk away if he so desired. Alfred could be with Arthur out of his own choice, rather than obliged to.

And just like in the past, where Alfred did not want Arthur to find pain in protecting him; he did not want Arthur to be hurt by his affections now. It was severe insult to see, hear, Arthur accuse him of intentionally using his body for his own selfish desires instead of seeing past the barriers of the 'box' as into the obvious. He loved Arthur, and it was now all plain to see. He just had to make sure that the Englishman opened his eyes.

* * *

The first thing Arthur had done after he had felt the scene with malice filling him was, surprisingly, go to the bathroom and brush his teeth. As his usual morning ritual, Arthur would be damned if he changed it just because of what he had woken up to that day. He tried desperately to continue as he would have done; without their presence in his home. Not to mention, had they found some reason to possibly communicate with him – he would far rather go about ignoring them without the morning taste in his mouth.

Not only that, Arthur considered with a heavy feeling cramping his chest, but he had absolutely no idea what his mouth might have been forced to do the night before. He did not know whether the hoarse ache in his throat was from his moans and pants or something much thicker and much more solid.

The bathroom, as Arthur walked inside, was still in the exact same condition as it was last night. Bottles were scattered randomly everywhere, tossed around when he was desperately looking for some lubrication. He scoffed, remembering how he had deliberated over which to use. He no longer understood whether or not that so called 'memory' was a lie anymore. Who knew what other deceit was planted in him.

As he brushed his teeth, Arthur could hardly look in the mirror. Not only was he disturbed by what Francis and Alfred had apparently done to him barely twelve hours ago, but he was absolutely, fervently disgusted at himself.

Evidently, he had given in to his fellow nations. He couldn't even remember taking any alcohol the night before, so they must have done a real number on him. Perhaps it was date rape drugs that got him so intoxicated – his kidneys did feel a little weird now that he thought about it. The nation was a bit of a hypochondriac, though, so he didn't know if his body was just making the feelings up.

The very fact that they managed to bed him meant that they knew – they knew that he loved them, and that he could be easily exploited to their benefits. There was no other reason for their smugness and certainly for Alfred's attempt to kiss him earlier. The English nation refused point blank to think that the American's words could possibly have been true.

Good things never happen to the wicked. Consequentially, Arthur could never accept that Alfred and Francis were there for any reason other than to please themselves. It was all selfishness disguised until the false pretences of 'care'. How absurd. Arthur had far too much sense to believe in anything but deceit.

Anger boiled up in the Englishman far too much for the man to take. He tossed his toothbrush at the mirror, ignoring the minty splats that speckled all down the silvery glass. Spitting, rinsing, Arthur left promptly and headed downstairs – all the while entirely blanking out the very existence of his bedroom and the possibility of other nation residing there. Hearing something getting kicked inside, Arthur winced and clenched his fists. He prayed, internally, that they would just leave... let him get over the shock on his own terms.

Speaking of 'his own terms'; a swift craving for tea was entering the nation's mind. Tea; the dried leaves, internodes and leaf buds of a Camellia Sinensis – an eastern Asian evergreen shrub – prepared and steeped to make an aromatic, somewhat bitter beverage. Above anything, it is a social device for afternoon tea or dinner parties; although it's wonderfully relaxing and alertness heightening qualities were particularly what Arthur craved. To him, personally, it was a means to calm him when he most needed time to actively reorganise himself. Today, indeed, was no different.

The wait itself, however, was always horrific when he was in the highest disparity for the amber liquid. Kettle filled and on the electric stand, Arthur stood facing it – frantically trying to terrify or guilt the pot into boiling all that little bit faster. It was times of utter silence like this that he naturally began to reflect on what had happened. Arthur loathed himself greatly as the thought of Alfred came into mind, with all of his beautifully naked qualities.

The nation was so simmering in his handsomeness; the sort of attractiveness that could instantly take breaths away. It was unfair, certainly. Alfred had picked up on a body that the entire world had wanted to possess – whether it was for land or for personal reasons. While Arthur was, well, he was hardly anything commendable.

The very thought of _him _or _Francis _- the most seductive and elegant nation of them all – wanting to be with him made the Briton crumble. It was absurd, false, and could never be proclaimed true. As a sober man, he was far too sensible to fall for such a thing.

Just like the heating kettle, Arthur's feelings were beginning to bubble in his chest until it felt absolutely unbearable. He shook his head, forcing the thoughts out of his mind – to think of happier things, yes, like flowers; rhododendrons, roses, fuchsia, lilies. With an angered sigh, Arthur realised that it was useless. The thoughts reappeared constantly in his mind despite his eagerness to have them ridded.

Reaching to the little tin that he kept the tea bags in, Arthur's hand briefly hovered over the one in which he kept coffee – just in case any of his guests had horrendous taste in hot beverages. Almost one hundred percent of those guests were the certain two nations he was trying to mentally avoid. Francis, he knew, drunk coffee around him just to stir him up and Alfred was a-given every since the incident in Boston harbour.

Instead of guiding his hand away from it and to the tea; Arthur frowned darkly and picked the damned thing up – right before he chucked it at the wall with the full brunt of his internal malice. Coffee granules scattered everywhere, and the metal tin racketed and rung as it hit the floor.

"What the hell—Arthur, damn it, what are you doing?" Came a voice in the same direction he had thrown the coffee. Truthfully, Arthur really hadn't noticed the American's presence at the door; but had he done, he would have chucked something much more painful and large than coffee. "Calm down, space cadet! You could have hit me!"

"What makes you think, Alfred, that that was not my intended purpose?" Arthur scathed back, pointing an accusing finger at the other. Said other nation looked momentarily wounded, kicking a path through the coffee and approaching ever cautiously. "...Don't you dare come a single step closer!"

Obediently, Alfred halted with an overly exaggerated sigh.

"I told you to get out of my home – not to wait fifteen minutes and then pester me!"

"Like hell would I do that!" Alfred replied, holding his hips. He pulled a slight pout, tapping his fingers impatiently.

"Do not use that language and tone with me, _boy_." Arthur said, practically growling with mirth at the other.

"I can use whatever language or tone or whatever I so like. So ha, and live with it." Alfred said, taking another few steps closer. Arthur tensed up noticeably, but he did not dare move from his position. Their eyes locked, before the Englishman pointedly eyed up the telephone on the other side of the kitchen with vigour. The American didn't take the threat. He knew that Francis was right about Arthur's threats being much more bark than bite.

"Listen, Arthur. Just let me talk for a second—Hey, don't pull that face! It's not gonna kill ya, y'know?—Good. Alright..." He sighed deeply, not entirely sure how to communicate with the stubborn Briton; especially when that stubborn Briton was not entirely enthusiastic about talking as well. "...okay, here goes. I know that you might feel all, like, hurt right now and stuff... but... well; you're not the only one."

Arthur snorted at that, folding his arms. _Please_.

"Don't be like that. Come on, damn it, listen to me!" He added, stroking his hand through his hair; nervous pretences, as ever. "Arthur, look, I've kept this inside for a very long time now – but – I can't let it be held in anymore. I know you might look on what happened wrongly, but... I didn't lie, you know? And—And I didn't force you into doing something you didn't want to do. I swear. I wouldn't d—"

"—Enough." Arthur interjected. His voice was woven with spite. They stared at each other for a tense moment. The tension could have been chopped into chunks. Inevitably; hurt and anger was beginning to flow intensely through both of their veins. The kettle behind the Englishman was getting close to the boil.

"Let me tell you this, Alfred. I will not accept your pity." The Briton continued, staring him down sternly. He knew the American was uneasy by the way he was shifting with weight on the balls of his feet. Arthur scoffed, and turned around to finish making his tea. "I don't care what you say, Alfred. 'I love you'...? Don't make me fucking laugh. You have no idea what love is. Let me be the first to tell you that whatever you did to me last night is nothing but a sick, fucked-up joke. You and Francis must think that I am a complete fool for believing that you care about my 'feelings' now. Perhaps, I am already a complete fool for falling for it."

Arthur went to pop the tea bag in his mug. His heartbeat sky-rocketed, however, when his wrist was seized.

"This is a joke!" Alfred spat. The Englishman could feel every word that passed his lips, putting continuous pressure onto an already heavy heart.

"You don't think, Arthur, for one single minute that what was said and done last night was actually real? Don't be so full of yourself! This is not about us violating you and forcing you to do things you don't want!"

The Englishman suddenly felt scandalised. He snarled, grinding his teeth together as Alfred continued.

"I never thought I would say this, but, put down your pride and consider someone else's feelings for once. Did it even occur to you for a single second that maybe, just maybe, we were with you last night because we _loved you...?_

For God's sakes, Arthur. You accused me of being demeaning, but think about what you're saying! Don't you realise that sometimes, I don't know, good things can happen? I don't know about Francis, but I know what I feel. Don't you dare doubt that.

I know that I love you.

Got that into your thick British skull? I-Am-In-Love-With—You."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. Alfred was blind to what love really was. An infatuation, maybe, was the height of his affection; something impure as a faked diamond and just as easy to crack as glass.

"...You're not going to listen, are you? You're just not going to listen. You really think I'd take advantage of you?" Alfred's voice, now, was so filled with irritation that it was cracking. In front of them, the kettle finally boiled.

"Well, fine."

Arthur hardly knew what hit him, when he was suddenly thrown onto the kitchen countertop – stomach down. Gasping for breath proved as a fruitless action, and he quickly found that the force had winded him. Own back, he supposed, for earlier. The mug that he was going to use knocked onto its side, and rolled all of the way to the edge. He tried grabbing for it, panting desperately to retrieve that breath of his back, but his arm was suddenly yanked away. Arthur watched in horror as it tumbled off of the side – and winced when it hit the floor with a prominent _smash_.

"Y-You—What the hell are you doing?—That mug was..."

The Englishman never got the chance to say why the mug was worth mourning, although it was something far too insignificant anyway. Their eyes didn't link before Alfred suddenly pushed Arthur's head down against the cold, hard marble. He snarled, trying to force his arm out of the other's grip and resist.

"Al—Alfred F. Fucking Jones—What is...!"

The same hand that forced his head before moved, grabbing Arthur's jaw and yanking it away from where the American was. He tried to resist, going to bite the fingers there – when a sudden presence closed in behind him. The way Arthur's arm was twisted revealed what he had already figured out. Alfred had climbed onto the countertop, on top of him. And Heavens betray him if his heartbeat hadn't gotten that little notch faster.

He let out a muffled noise of surprise when he felt Alfred's tongue lick the shell of his ear. Arthur's eyes widened, taking the American's last words into consideration. _'You really think I'd take advantage of you'?_

"A-Al...?" Arthur whispered, panicked.

A sudden terror jolted through his body, making him feel weak at the knees. Which was just as well; Arthur felt the American slot his legs in-between his own, and slowly nudge them apart. He fought back, resisting the attempt – but that quickly proved useless too. Alfred let go of his now sore jaw and wrist, spanning his legs wide as the American pushed his knee into the cavity created. Feeling tangled, Arthur let out an accidental gasping moan as the other nation pressed up against his crotch – intentionally, no doubt.

With both his arms now released, Arthur went to try knocking the American off of him – only to find that he was completely pinned in; hardly any room between he and Alfred's naked chest. When had he gotten so damned close, anyway? The Englishman could hear his breaths come out in exasperated pants, and his stomach stammer with heat. Once he realised that those arms could be a hindrance, Alfred took the two thin wrists in his one hand – shoving them up above his head and out of the way.

Arthur cried out, muscles locking, and tried to tug back. But Alfred was too strong to force away. The grip on his wrists was surprisingly immense, and he was completely boxed in. The leg pinned him in from behind while the hand above made sure he couldn't escape that way either. He squirmed, racking his mind for a way out...

"See how easy this is for me to do, Arthur? Do you?" Alfred growled dominantly. The rage was not lost on his tongue, and Arthur found himself hastily shaking his head in disbelief. What exactly was Alfred trying to do? He... God, he wasn't being serious, was he?

"I can dominate you completely. I'm strong and you know it. I could have forced you down to the ground and had my way with you a long, long time ago."

Arthur swallowed thickly at that, almost choking on the hard stone feeling in his throat. The nation tried not to whimper, but he had become rigid with horror; shocked that the American would dare push him down like this. That said, however, he believed it of the night before... why on Earth would this not be the same?

"Alfred, _please_... this is ridiculous!"

His words trailed off when Alfred's other hand bent down underneath them, brushing the Englishman's torso through the fabric of his haphazardly done up shirt. Arthur tensed again as the American's hand slid across to the buttons, and began forcing it open with fierce tugs. Hardly any time at all passed before it was completely undone, a few of the buttons having had been popped out of the seams. That strong hand of his dipped inside the cotton; stroking all the way up his sensitive side. Arthur couldn't stop himself moaning at his touch.

"—Touch you, violate you." Alfred's knee pressed right up against his crotch. Arthur was incoherent with shock. Even his body no longer knew if it should fight back in outrage or let the American use him and abuse him like this. The Englishman was conflicted, along with the thoughts filling his mind. Surely – surely this was all a lie. Alfred would never touch him like this... he wouldn't – he just wouldn't. But then—what was last night supposed to be?

"Take everything that you have to give. I could break your bones and lock you up for me to use any time. My own little slave – wouldn't that be lovely, Arthur?" Alfred pressed against him, pulling the collar of the Briton's shirt backwards so that he could dip his sly and damned tongue across Arthur's thin, breakable neck.

But the touch never came. Arthur blinked wide-eyedly; confused as the hot breath on his skin retreated and the knee between his thighs disappeared. He was just about to voice his further shock when the weight on him was removed and his wrists were also released. A few seconds of silence filled the air with vacancy.

"But I don't, Arthur. I don't." Came the emotive reply.

Arthur froze, realising that the seductively agitated tone in Alfred's voice had suddenly changed. He turned around, rolling onto his back. His heart hit repeatedly in his chest - _thump thump_ - as he gazed up at that American's face. Instead of seeing what he expected there – anger, lust – in the other's expression; he saw a melancholic frown of what seemed to be sympathy.

He stared, not knowing at all how to react to it. Alfred was just touching him, so, why...? Why did he stop...?

"Because there's no way in hell that I'd hurt you. I don't want you to be afraid of me, and I'll be damned before the day I use you in that way. Damn it, Arthur, don't you realise how insulting this is? I can't believe that you - of all people - would have that little faith in me. We've been partners in fixing this world for years, haven't we? You didn't doubt me all this time – did you...?"

The genuinely upset expression on his face was what confused Arthur the most.

"You think that you're the only one that could get hurt by this, do you? Think again. Francis is another case, but for me... last night was something good, Arthur. You know how I felt when I heard you say you loved me? You really, really think I was lying when I said four words back?

Maybe I do say things that I don't mean sometimes – 'cause I'm still young and I'm still bashful, and I know! But seriously - I'm not so stupid to just toss around meaningful words without knowing the consequences! Independence, love - I don't care! Do you think I'm soulless, Arthur?

I love you. Has that just not sunk in yet?"

Arthur was flabbergasted. He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself tongue-tied. Searching for lies in the American's posture, expression or eyes revealed nothing other than truth; and, Arthur had no idea how to react. His body went rigid in incredulity.

Above him, Alfred's lips curled inwards in hushed sorrow. Arthur really did feel scandalised by that face. "...D-Don't, don't ever make me have to do something like _that_ again... alright? Has it sunk in yet, Arthie...?"

The Englishman breathed slowly, and nodded.

The American, consequentially, smiled widely. His hand brushed lightly against Arthur's cheek. Below, Arthur's own slowly snaked up and wrapped his fingers around that hand. He was shocked to discover that it, Alfred's, was shaking. It probably had been the whole time...

"...Good." He smiled a smidgeon wider, and descended down; kissing the Brit deeply.

* * *

_And there you have it, loves._

_I haven't written anything more than this yet..._

_I'll point out that I will be updating the Kink Meme a lot quicker than here. Basically, I'm pooling chapters together when the updates are big enough. It might be a little while before the next chapter, but I'll try keep up with it._

_Thanks for reading so far, m'dears._


	3. Chapter 3

_DON'T WORRY, I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN. OTL. I'm such a bad author... gah. I'm sorry for not updating in almost two months. Not only was there a little bit of a lapse in motivation for me; but I have just gone back to college. I'm in my final year, so the workload at the beginning was shocking... so I really didn't have the time or mind to write. But I've finally gotten over the initial education blues and horror. Hopefully to everyone's relief._

_Another factor is that I wasn't sure how I wanted this update to happen. Because I know exactly what I want to do after it - but this was what got me stressed out the most. But now it's over, hopefully it'll run much smoother!_

_Because its been so long; here's a quick re-cap:_

_After a night of full-on all-out masturbation; Arthur wakes up groggily in the morning after, being very well man-handled by one hell of a naked Francis and man-fondled by one hell of a manry Alfred. Cue epic fit, in which Arthur is told that he 'didn't' masturbate the night before - but that Alfred and Francis had had sex with him. Automatically coming to the conclusion that they got him drunk and effectively took advantage of him, Arthur breaks away - much to Alfred's, and eventually Francis's (when the bugger wakes up) chagrin._

_Stressed by the fact that Arthur took off; Alfred panics in Francis's direction about his worries - while the Frenchman manages to somehow stay totally composed and tells Alfred that he should be angry rather than concerned, because Arthur was suggesting that he thought Alfred was nothing like the hero Alfred claimed to be._

_In consequence; Alfred catches up to Arthur and tries to explain that it was not because they just wanted to fuck him, but because he really did love him. To which Arthur did not listen to - causing Alfred to take drastic measures. Alfred then forces Arthur down, pinning him to the kitchen counter top (sacrificing a perfectly hospital cup, we thank thee not, on the way) and initially pretending that he was going to rape Arthur._

_Although he stops before it got too far, and tells Arthur that he couldn't do that to him. Because he really does love him, and that he would never hurt him - which eventually, albeit hesitantly, results in their first mouth-to-mouth romantic kiss._

_[/End mini summary]._

_And now for the fill..._

_**IMPORTANT: **I'm really sorry that I haven't replied to any of the more recent reviews. My mail suddenly decided that email alerts from Fanfiction dot net were spam - so I didn't get any of them until a little while ago. But I have read through them all now, and I thank you very, very much for the support! It's relieving, because I don't see very many responses on the actual kink meme because it's so long to catch up with. Thank you guys so much._

_Here's the kink meme link, for those that asked: hetalia-kink (dot) livejournal (dot) com (slash) 15769 (dot) html ?thread = 50352281#50352281_

* * *

...

There were many memories that usually preserved themselves between people when they have their first ever kiss. Not that Arthur believed this was what it really was; while Alfred and Francis continued to pretend that there _was_ a 'night before' for the three of them. Usually it's a memory that stays with you for a life time, in the nation's cases even more, whether it is good or not.

It's like a new discovery; a whole new world opened up to you, and a new environment to explore. Although the same was true to first kisses with a particular person – though to a lesser extent. Fair enough, you've been introduced into the love and care of another and by some extent that does apply as discovery. But instead of thousands of doors for you to open, there are only two - the first to step back and the second to embrace.

Needless to say, however; with Alfred's lips pressed quite eagerly against his own, there were far more doors – paths to travel down – than for anyone else. Of course, the questions weren't eluded either. How long had Alfred felt like this, while Arthur was oblivious to his feelings? For how many years have they danced around each other with harsh words and bitter insults as their medium, when in reality they could have met in the middle a long time ago?

"Mm... Arthur, I-" Alfred panted, as the two of them let their lips slice delicately against one another's. His hand splayed against the Englishman's side, pulling him closer plush against his half-naked body. Arthur could feel how erect his nipples were in the crisp air through his own clothing, as loose as it was. Along with other assets, his mind did not hesitate to remind. "-you have no idea how long I've... _no idea_...!"

'_I can dominate you completely'_

The Englishman underneath him said nothing, doing nothing other than letting his fingers reach upwards and wrap gently around his ex-colony's shoulders. He loathed the fact that his fingers were shaking - he really did. It should not have been so shocking - so nerve-wracking - to kiss the man that you have fallen in love with several times over. But it made sense, didn't it? When you really do love someone, then it scares you at every opportunity. The fear that they would one day leave you, or maybe be deterred or repulsed by your actions was a heavy burden. For someone like Alfred - someone that _has_ betrayed him in the past; it was especially hard for him to close himself balanced and composed.

"Nn..."

A brief murmur - fleeting moan, perhaps. Something so fragile that it could have been mistaken as a whisper carried by the outside wind - was all that left Arthur as Alfred dropped his hand lower down, brushing the Briton's shirt out of the way so he could touch, fondle, and love the expanses of skin at his disposal. Alfred licked the bottom of those thin but surprisingly soft cherry pink lips, begging for access that was willingly granted. Their tongues slid together heatedly, spreading essence of one another into the other's mouth; while the American danced his palm over the subtle, white sand coloured dunes of muscle Arthur had at his abdomen.

'_Touch you. Violate you'_

It was entrancing, really, how Arthur would gently lean into the touch without consciously giving consent to his body's actions. If Alfred raised his hand by an inch, Arthur's back would bend and his stomach would follow to seek that hand's warmth and comfort. Alfred would have grinned at the realisation; had he not been so busy tasting Arthur's mouth, pushing the opposition's tongue into submission. The Englishman acted like Alfred was his puppeteer; strings being tied weightlessly to the American's hand, so he could conduct Arthur to do whatever he desired.

While Arthur probably still did not believe Alfred in mind - accusations of a drunken cavort hanging very much questionably in the air, even after his heavily weighted words - his body definitely told that there was nothing the Englishman wanted more than to believe his words.

Their lips clicked and popped as they passionately frolicked in the release of tension between them. Neither was too sure of how it happened, but soon, Arthur had lost the entirety of his shirt and was panting quite vigorously underneath Alfred - of whom had either forgotten to zip up his jeans throughout the whole fling, or had pulled it down _God knows when_. Still; since he had gone commando in his rush to reach Arthur quickly, it managed to give Arthur another look at what had been assured by those fervent kisses.

If anything could give him shivers; seeing _that _again was what captured him the most.

Recovering from said shivers, Arthur tilted his head back - letting it lull against the kitchen counter top underneath him. Without a doubt, this was possibly turning out to be one of the most terrifying things he can ever done. Or had almost done, at least. Nerves were erupting in his stomach like some sort of volcano; boiling up slowly over the edge, and expanding heat ifast/i inside of his body.

The Englishman squeezed his eyes shut tightly, as he felt a weight being lifted off of his legs and a sound of clothing go 'flump' on the floor besides them. Knowing what he was doing - what Alfred was doing to him. It was all his fault. _All his fault_ - was almost setting his body into automatic shut-down. All because he was quickly being overwhelmed.

Arthur barely stifled an urgent moan when he felt Alfred cup the tip of his clothed erection. He still had his boxers on then, as the Briton didn't hesitate to think, as the slightly wetter fabric clung to him. As his ex-colony's lips returned to him, kissing quite chastely, Arthur went almost stiff as a board as fingertips teased the rim of his underwear.

Though something other than Alfred's touches were bothering him significantly. The first and foremost question that was slowly filling Arthur's mind was 'what of Francis?'. The third party to the two person dance had so far disappeared, feelings completely ignored as they, Alfred and Arthur, continued to frolic with each other.

If he was in a right state of mind - and Arthur did severely doubt it - he would have claimed he understood Alfred now. It was a complete lie, but, it was a weight off of his mind. And it was his lips sealed there, against his own.

But for Francis; this whole thing was questionable. The Frenchman was always the type to make absolutely no sense whatsoever. Maybe that was one of the things that pissed Arthur off so much about him. The man never spoke his true mind, other than a few wisely placed sentences; he always knew what he was doing perfectly. He was a psychological mind trap. Nobody could see him, but he could see everyone else – so clearly that he often understood someone else better than even they did. Had Francis had any clarity, he would have used his strategic gift on the battlefield far better. But while war was useful, his mind was always elsewhere. It didn't take a genius to understand where his head really was.

Francis Bonnefoy always claimed dictatorship over the system of 'love'. It was the reason he understood people so well, and why he – despite his proclaimed military record – was still one of the most prestigious countries in the world. He had history, he had class; and he was always there to lend a hand to those who needed it - whether that was helping _his _enemies or not.

Let's not forget, Francis helped Alfred break away from Arthur. Was this not something _good_ in the long run? All he did was to break a heart on the way to mending another. And eventually, now, it all fell into place. Here Alfred was, and here he was. He could be happy. Arthur supposed this must mean that love really does make the world go around. Was it really the only thing that mattered? Were wars and death really all for a tiny moment's gratification?

Along with the door forwards and the door away from Alfred, three more doors lingered behind - one for Francis, one for neither, and then the one in the middle; the one double padlocked, chained, and missing its key. Though for now, only two of the doors were unlocked. There was an overwhelming urge in the Englishman's unconscious mind to grab the handles and rattle until the locking mechanism clicked and set him free.

Alfred pressed one more subtle kiss to his lips, and then to the tip of his nose. Arthur couldn't place the look that he received as anything other than one of concern. He had no idea where the nerves were coming from at all. Bugger, who was he kidding? He knew exactly why he was nervous. He could tell exactly why his mind was whispering to him that there something wasn't right about this - that there was something that didn't add up.

Cerulean blue eyes connected with earthly emeralds, gazing down questioningly. They were wide with worry. "Arthur?" The Englishman heard the American's voice say. "Arthur, is this... is this really _okay_?"

He knew exactly what Alfred was trying to say. 'Are you really fine with me touching you like this?' was more exact. 'You really want _me_, of all people, to be doing this - right?' could have been another connotation. Heaven knows; Arthur could hear it in his tone all too clearly. He wanted to reply. He wanted desperately to say 'yes'. 'Yes. I'm sure. And I do, in fact, love you too', even, at his very best. But he was frozen.

Instead of speaking, Arthur's eyes cast elsewhere. Pressure suddenly seemed to clog in the atmosphere, from absolutely nowhere. The hand at the entrance to his underwear had gone. Their breaths slowly managed to level out and quieten. And then silence dictated them.

"I need to think." Arthur sliced through the heavy tension. He didn't look at Alfred, but he could far too easily imagine the confusion and perhaps even distraught on his face. His mouth opened as his mind suddenly had a compelling need to speak, but he shortly closed it - having discovered that the apology died away on the tip of his tongue.

Without meeting the other's eyes, nor being at all contested, Arthur turned and pushed himself off of the kitchen counter top - carefully avoiding the broken mug pieces on the ground - and listened to the tap of his bare feet as he escaped, leaving the room and his American love behind. But until something became clear to him, he would not be able to settle. He had to know. Heaven hold his pleas for love for a bounty.

He _had _to know whether Francis was one and the same.


	4. Chapter 4

As for Arthur; he _knew_ it was wrong. There were many reasons why he should have tried to purge these feelings years ago. For the first, Alfred was many years his junior. Over five hundred, in fact. He was literally twice the boy's age and then some. How curious that he was twice his age in actuality, but bodily only peaking by three or four years maturer. Even by human standards, four years wasn't intimately close age-wise. Had people seen that Arthur had raised Alfred practically from the seed of the Earth - a small, inconceivably beautiful child - they would have been horrified.

Truth of it was, Arthur had fallen in love with someone that had once been the equivalent of his son. Even with incest - marrying cousins and whatnot - being quite accepted in the mid-teenage centuries of British history; a father liking a son was unheard of. Quite disgusting, at that. Arthur knew he would have loathed himself, if he was one of the ones standing on the outside of the relationship looking in. That awkward situation was hard, honestly, to overlook.

There was something about Alfred, though, that dazzled him into not caring. Something that blew him away whenever he looked into those curiously deep eyes - not that you would have guessed, but there was a depth to Alfred that was unrivalled by anything. A sense for freedom of speech, independent and heroism that would attempt to heal the world.

(A_fter it was he that broke it, sometimes. Was it not also heroism to try fix your mistakes?_).

There was an enthusiasm there that was hard to misplace - and though it had died out slightly in recent times, (post-9/11 and such, of course) there was still that little presence of heart in him that Arthur - in a strange way - highly admired. Arthur knew the American was good-looking, had a heart of gold, and also an annoying bad side that got on his nerves far too many times. But how could he not lend his heart to him? Forgiving that their age was so different, not that it mattered anyway to their unique race, and the American's frightfully hyperactive disposition; there was a connection between them that ran deep.

Arthur wasn't quite sure when he first started getting feelings for the American. Needless to say, while Alfred didn't develop anything before or during the revolutionary war stages (or at least, to his knowledge) - Arthur was far more wary and tormented within himself. Back then, he knew for a fact that _he_ made him feel something _different_ from the others. He thought of it as an innocent adoration at first, but it didn't take long to realise. There was something about the American he loved. He loved Alfred. His little, bright spark of a childish colony. And then, he _loved_ Alfred. The bright spark of a childish colony that turned into a man.

And one that was no longer _his_.

Alfred had the entire package that made Arthur's mentality secretively weep. His body, for one, was quite glorious. He couldn't forget that one time he had to leave America to fight in the wars across in Europe, leaving Alfred as a young boy and then coming back to find a handsome man had taken his place. It was so shameful, but Arthur couldn't possibly have taken his eyes away from him.

Alfred had something highly attractive about him. Maybe it was his muscles - he must have been doing lots of work with his people while Arthur was away - or perhaps the slight tan that highlighted his facial features with just enough depth and torso with just enough definition - no doubt obtained by topless exposure to the New England sun. That probably was the first time Arthur ever noticed Alfred. In a sexual light, that is.

_(Arthur had left early that night, and found the first place to stay that he could. There was no way that he could have relieved himself in Alfred's own home. Not when his moans were filled with only one sweet name excessively escaping his lips. He couldn't stop throwing up the day after, ridden with internal disgust. Alfred, bless his heart, looked so concerned. ...It didn't help. Not one bit)._

Maybe that was one of the reasons why Alfred was so much more important to him than his other colonies. He was the heartache that Arthur just couldn't get enough of. He didn't like to be away from him; away from that charm, and handsomeness that slowly started to devour his insides whole. But in a way, he knew it was for the best. The small fascination with the young boy he found and won over that one summer day a long, _long_ time ago, almost became an addiction before it was too late.

It would be an entire lie to deny that there was - deep, deep down - a sense of relief along with his mourning when the American left. He thought that he could finally move on, letting his broken heart be the incentive to heal. But when was life ever simple? When did it ever give exactly what those in need were quietly begging for?

_(There was relief too, when Alfred came to join the World Wars. He did as he did best - what the American highly aspired to do, from the birth of his nation and even before. Arthur was glad that he could fulfil himself; to fulfil the duty that made Alfred who he was. But that didn't mean Arthur had to be nice to him.)_

Eventually, while Arthur was alone for the decades upon decades with so much time to spare, he finally noticed that it was beyond 'lust' that he felt for the American. Alfred was one of the two things that Arthur longed for - desperately - but could not have. It was impossible to not loathe 'love' in those circumstances. But 'love' it was. And true, he loathed it with every breath.

He tried to take his mind off of it. His empire expanded to the largest that the world had ever seen, never letting the sun set on his glory. His industrial revolution quickly spread throughout the world and transformed human capabilities. Life was busy. But when you live endlessly; you always manage to find time to think. Time to think meant time to lament. _Time to find things to miss._

So it was there he realised that 'importance' Alfred had, to him, was new. Different. _Good_.

_(Bad. On the battlefield, distractions meant death. The small shards of lead still buried deep in one shoulder was a reminder of such. It hurt a little bit even now when he flexed his shoulder. How he managed to survive through the Second world war without adding a single death to his count, he didn't know. Sometimes, you survive far better when you know what you wish to live for)._

In the end, Arthur came to accept it as truth. It was another example of his chaotically thick stubbornness. Even several hundred years with this feeling possessing him, he didn't come to terms until he - himself - beat the thought over and over through his mind a hundred thousand times and then a hundred thousand more.

Truth was; he belonged to Alfred, literally at first sight. On reflection, he would blame only himself for the fact that he lost him all those years ago - despite his hot-wired want to keep the American, and his lands, for the British empire and his own heart. Of course he knew it was his fault that Alfred and his people left. And how could he possibly deny, now, that it was for the best?

He had been far too aware of his feelings to Alfred for years, upon years. It made him sick at the best of times; nightmares burdening his mind and sickness running through his body whenever it came around to 'that time' of the year. To think that once upon a time, July was a joyous month - filled with warmth and promise. That said, it was not very English at all to enjoy when things are going one hundred percent right.

Perhaps then, that was why Arthur broke away and ran off. The same reason why he didn't believe that Alfred loved him back - right until the other blond beat it into his skull and kissed him thickly until the facts stuck in his mind - and why his mind saw it so believable that they had slept with him the night before; even in such _ridiculous_ and _obviously fake_ circumstances. With evidence hidden - from the vibrators to Alfred's feelings before - he couldn't believe anything other than the presumed to be true.

Seeing is believing, and Arthur had seen an awful lot in his millennia and a bit of life. He wouldn't have believed in fairies if he hadn't seen it, for example. But Alfred's feelings was one thing he didn't see. Similarly, Francis's had still gone unnoticed.

Arthur's emotions toward Francis were even more complicated than Alfred's. Lust? Yes. Love? ...Yes. Hate? _Definitely_. There were so many layers to break down to even get a clue how either of those two felt. Or at least, how they _really_ felt. Their distaste with one another was already far too obvious to see. And without understanding the Frenchman's motives, he couldn't move on from that either. _True_ motives, that was. So while Alfred's were now in clear daylight for all to see, Arthur still felt disguised in the dark. That had to change.

* * *

Alfred could only linger uselessly in the kitchen, wondering where on earth he had gone wrong. Perhaps he can come on too strongly when he forced Arthur down onto the kitchen side and threatening to strip the Brit of everything he could give – but it was merely to make a point. Arthur's skull was hilariously thick, and we aren't talking about physical density here.

He had always believed in something, a universal truth, all the way up until another contradicting point was rammed into his head so hard that he was forced to put up with it. The theory of evolution, for example, was ridiculed for many, many years – but eventually Arthur came to see the absolute possibility of its truth. But it didn't come quickly. History dictated that much.

On an even more personal scale; Arthur was not initially able to come to terms with the revolutionary war. Not until he was there on that battlefield, rain cascading in heavy clumps from the skies, and pointing his gun at the one that had previously been his 'brother'. Facts sometimes bounced off of Arthur's head like it was a squash court. No matter how many times you smashed that ball into the wall, it always rebounded back. It was one of his most maddening, irritating, exasperating, and downright _annoying_ (along with other similar synonyms) aspects of him. But it was who he was – a cocky gentleman bastard that didn't see sense, though he was quick to accuse others of exactly the same.

_(But that didn't matter. Alfred wanted to be with him all the same)._

With a hefty sigh, Alfred gazed out of the window with a weary look on his face – disliking the taste of defeat. It was peculiar that the 'taste of defeat' was also the 'taste of Arthur', wasn't it? The American slowly lifted his fingers to his lips, and smoothed over the spot that previously had the person that captivated him the most sealed against. It was so easy to stereotype Arthur as tasting just like tea, but the Englishman was actually nothing of the sort. There was a distinct fragrant taste about him that reminded Alfred of salt-water taffy - sweet, but with a bit of an unusual kick. Needless to say, Alfred would not turn down the chance to kiss the Brit again.

...Which could have been one of the reasons why he felt so honestly _devastated_. Though there was no real rejection, the Englishman still wasn't here anymore. He still wasn't kissing him. He was no longer letting Alfred gently touch his skin – letting Alfred whisper soft, comforting things in his ear. There was a certain yearning inside him that wished he had grabbed onto the Brit's wrist and not let him go.

It was so easy to wonder the many reasons why Arthur could have ran off, and none of them granted Alfred any sort of comfort at all. He couldn't deny that the feeling he was harbouring did contain that smallest hint of upset and sorrow. But, the majority of it manifested as a niggling anger. The sort of anger that builds up the more and more you think. Well, unluckily for Alfred, his mind was running around and around in circles.

"_Dammit_!" Alfred growled under his breath, swearing blindly and roughly. Why did Arthur have to be so dense? And people accused _him_ of not paying attention often enough!

So what was it? Was he too forceful with his administrations? He had started to strip Arthur a bit suddenly – but surely, _surely_, if the Brit believed that they had had sex the previous night, then he would have been less bothered to rid himself of his clothing? It couldn't possibly have been that the stubborn smaller man was against it – Alfred knew all too well that the soft moans Arthur gave were the echoes of nothing but encouragement. The treatment would have been so much softer than his experiences in the past. Everyone knew the previous Empire was not estranged to having sex. He was practically a scoundrel back in 'the day'. Plus, arousal on men was so obvious to notice. No. That couldn't have been it.

_('I need to think'. What a bastard. Did Arthur really think that he couldn't understand that face? He had to get away. How could he have stopped him? ...Underneath his superpower demeanour, he was only a man. A man... with a breakable heart)_

Maybe Arthur just didn't see him in that way. The American became even more annoyed at the fact that his lower lip quivered at the thought. It was possible of course that Francis had played him. 'He loves you', mm? Yeah, right. There was a very bold line between being in _love_ with someone, and being in lust. Now that Alfred thought about it, last night only proved that Arthur saw Alfred as a well-deserving sex figure. He may have screamed his name, but did he even _once_ say that he 'loved' him?

Even _once_?

If he wasn't mistaken, that was how Francis and he reacted to seeing him moan their names out the night before. Arthur, himself, said nothing of the God damned sort. It had been a long time, Alfred had thought, that the stingy Englishman had gotten laid. When desperate, you could fantasise about pretty much anyone. Maybe that was it. Maybe Arthur just wanted to have Alfred with him for the sex. But if that was true, why – _why_ – would he have left just went it was beginning to get serious?

Damn Francis. Evidently, he didn't always get it right. Filled with frustration, Alfred slammed his fist against the side and let out an annoyed groan. He wished sincerely that he was back at home, where he could do work or even shriek into his pillows to rid himself of this feeling. The tension was getting harshly on his nerves, and he couldn't stop himself getting enthused with the idea of deceit. Francis probably _knew_ that Arthur would run away – that he would somehow pull a mistake; whatever that mistake may be. Heck, he didn't even _know_! How was he supposed to contend with this?

The Frenchman had said he was in love with him, didn't he? Was he just a fool to believe it? Alfred grumpily buried his head in his hands, wondering whether Francis had played him from the start. He hadn't thought of it before, but he genuinely didn't know the long-haired blonde's feelings on the matter. It was so easy to think 'Hey, it's Francis. He's just in this because he wants to have sex with Arthur and be done with it. That's what he's always like – right?'

_('He seems to be mistaking you for a simple villain. Do you think he just has no faith? Aren't you angry that he judged you out of character?')_

Little did he realise, but he was doing exactly what Francis told him that Arthur was doing wrong. And that was 'to judge'. He had been so offended about how Arthur blamed him for something horrifically un-heroic, that he didn't notice himself judging Francis exactly the same all along.

Maybe Arthur 'couldn't', because he was in love with Francis, and Francis alone. What about _that_? Alfred could barely believe he didn't even _think_ about the possibility that the Frenchman was manipulating him like a little leash to bring Arthur to his knees. Perhaps it was merely a set up to have the Brit abandon thoughts of lust and adoration to him in the first place. He could have been sad because it wasn't _Francis_ that came after him. Or _Francis_ that tried to comfort him that morning. What if Arthur was running away from him now because he wanted to know what _Francis_ felt?

This feeling of jealousy... he did not like it. Not one little bit.

Alfred sighed, wondering how many more tales of deceit would flourish in his mind. This was _ridiculous_ – and frankly, he wanted an end to it. If he wanted to know what Arthur and Francis thought, then he would have to ask them straight up. Whatever happened to the 'brash' him? Just because it was dealing with love, he was dodging the easy routes. Francis was right, back in Arthur's bedroom. He just had to be himself. He'd have to get the two of them to talk, whether they wanted to or not.

With that in mind, Alfred hopped off of the kitchen side with a highly determined look on his face. It had been about fifteen minute – going on twenty – since Arthur had ran off, and as far as the American was concerned, that was damned long enough. He took a deep breath, letting the nerves try to settle inside his stomach, and brought his hands roughly through his hair a few times. A nervous habit, as it were – everyone had to have _some_ tics.

A loud noise coming from upwards made the American bolt to attention, eyes snapping in the vague direction of wherever it was. He couldn't work out what happened – the sound was so dull – but he _knew_ he wouldn't like it one tiny bit. Knowing the only two other occupants of the house, Alfred's mind filled in the mental blanks.

"_Fuck_—" he cursed loudly, and sprinted off to find where the noise had come from. If either of them had tried to kill each other... or _worse_... he would not forgive himself.

_Why did I ever give them an opportunity to be alone...?_

* * *

Arthur wasn't sure exactly where he was heading when he left the kitchen. Of course, had Francis been wise, he probably would have scarpered from the house by now. But then, when was Francis ever filled with sense? The Englishman tutted to himself gravely, and climbed the stairs to see if the Frenchman had moved from his position in the bed or not. It would be far easier if Francis came to seek him out himself like Alfred had, but then, Arthur wasn't certain of his intentions. For all he knew, Francis came last night just to piss about with him and that was the absolute end of it.

If it weren't for Alfred being so demanding and persistent about pushing his love onto him, then Arthur could have sworn that he would have left this uncertain feeling completely alone and forget about it. This was what Francis did best, after all - sleeping with people when they were nothing but worse for wear. Yes, Arthur's opinion upon him was far less than grand. But if only Alfred didn't do this for some other ulterior motive, he would have just let the situation lie.

He'd kill Francis - and Alfred for that matter - for doing this to him. He really would. It was such a bother to care about something that was such an inconceivably, horrifically burdening heartache. But fuck it all, in a way, the pain was all worth it. Yet, even as the Englishman went to seek out the French equivalent of his race; his mind kept snapping back to what happened downstairs. The taste of Alfred kissing him lingered in his mouth, the spittle exchanged between them leaving an odd presence in his mouth that Arthur hesitated to swallow.

In a way, he wished he could allow that taste to last but that little touch longer. Anything to act as a constant reminder that yes - _yes_ - he and the American had kissed. He and the American declared love. Or, at least, Alfred did.

Because damn it all; Arthur was not one to cave into using such meaningful words easily. People took those words highly for granted these days, and the Brit loathed that fact with a passion. Why ever say 'forever', when for humans 'forever' meant hardly anything? They had no idea how long an 'eternity' was.

Getting to the landing, Arthur was concerned by the fact that the entirety of the upstairs section of his house was hushed. Not a single noise of movement. His eyebrows quirked curiously, and his movements slowed to reduce his own noise levels as he slinked towards the bedroom. Did Francis really leave? Conspiracy theories were already running in Arthur's head. He half expected Francis to suddenly jump out from one of the rooms with a startling 'boo'.

Frowning deep, he reached his bedroom door - sighing, and then quietly pushing it open. Inside, the air was fragrant with the scents of sex - and Arthur was personally disgusted. Knowing that sweat and other substances, particularly a very staining white, were clinging thickly to his glorious gold linens made the inner-housewife inside him shudder. Looking in, he wasn't surprised to see that Francis was nowhere to be seen. The scene he had left that morning in the mood was more or less identical to before.

He wasn't sure whether the feeling he got then was disappointment, or a bizarre but heavy sense of relief. Arthur mumbled to himself, feeling his heart slowly condense in his chest. At least, if Francis wasn't a candidate for his affection, then allowing himself to Alfred was a much easier choice. But wherever was the closure in that? Arthur had a sad but sneaking suspicion that unless he talked to Francis, he would never be able to accept this and move on. Francis must have been there last night for a reason - and damned, Arthur wanted to know what it was.

Staring at the jostled sheets, stained with his own juices at the very least, Arthur recalled the image he gained when he woke up that very morning. Francis's well-structured side displaced on show to give Arthur's mentality images for probably years to come, and Alfred's hot muscular body contributed warmth to areas not defined solely to his blushing cheeks. Arthur licked his lips, think about Alfred kissing him again. How that probing tongue forced his mouth wide open and pushed in, kissing strongly but also passionately. Youths were always so much fun - so eager and willing to experience. Thinking back made Arthur's stomach boil and his heart leap.

And then there were those strong hands holding him down while the American muttered encouragement with words that were sweeter than saccharine and lips that practically danced over his bare and pale skin. To think, when he saw Alfred naked earlier, his internals turned almost to squishy mush.

Knowing - _believing_ - that Alfred and that honestly large length had pushed inside of him the night before, screwing him roughly into his own mattress; Arthur was practically set alight. Heat in his lower body took over, and the Brit finally realised just how naked he was. With only one layer of material covering him, stopping Alfred from getting in, it was impossible to ignore the strain his arousal caused. He felt suddenly sticky, as if the memory re-awakened his mentality from the night before.

Arthur looked around awkwardly, knowing that - damned - if he didn't get the image of Alfred lingering over the top of him, or didn't take care of this 'little problem' now; then he wouldn't get over it for a long time. Francis was nowhere to be seen, and he had left the American in the dark - so there was time to take care of it, wasn't there? The Englishman eyed his floor, seeing the random items of sexual aid strewn about like it was sweets at Halloween. How ideologically inappropriate for things to fuel his arousal even further where right there in front of him.

_(God. He could visualise it so clearly. Whether it was Alfred taking him from behind, with his arms thoroughly tied together - or him riding the damned cowboy like the boy was a bucking bronco.)_

Images flashed clearly through Arthur's mind of himself using them for Alfred's pleasure; performing kinkily, just as his personality quite heavily dictated. He was a very strong-willed soul. Nothing quite bothered him when it came to sex. When you lived as long as Arthur did - everything must have gotten terribly sexy at some point. Though, damn him - if he wasn't hilariously hard, he didn't know what he was. A fool, probably.

_(Alfred between his legs, pushing up into him while he moaned from behind the ball-gag; lust drowned in his eyes and pants visible in the reverberations of his naked chest)._

Arthur choked back a moan, and quickly shot his hands up to muffle his mouth. Resting his back against the door frame to hold himself up, the Englishman let the thoughts take him over for a few more moments. Why ever did he have to be so good at imagining things? The amount of times he managed to get hot and bothered - even in company - was truly amazing.

His eyes latched onto the bathroom door from his position. Being the only room in the house that locks, the desire to head there was suddenly very – very – appealing. After all, what if Alfred walked in on him pleasuring himself to his name? Whether they shamelessly fucked last night or not; that was still so undignified. If he was going to sort himself out, he was doing it in private. Away from shame and mortification. That; and he needed to get this sticky feeling off of himself. To be purged, he supposed.

With one more tentative look back at the bedroom, capturing the last of the memories of that morning passed; Arthur cast aside the feeling of dirtiness in his body as he let his feet pitter-patter forwards and into the bathroom. He turned, and sealed the door with a prominent click. If Alfred came, or Francis appeared out of hiding or something odd like that, he wouldn't get caught this way. Protected by not only an easily-breakable wooden object, but an invisible barrier of privacy. That said, since when did either of those two ever play by the rules of 'privacy'? It was practically one of their defining features, and one of the only things that made the two of them similar.

Hark; perhaps that was why he loved the two of him. Mentally, he was just a damned masochist.

_(It wouldn't be in Alfred's nature to hurt him, but he could imagine it anyway. His wrists would be bound together and he'd be on his knees, with his legs spread wide apart. The whip would strike across his back and a shout would leave his mouth in pain. His lips were still encrusted with white from earlier, when the other had forced his cock down his throat. The shouts would soon become pleasured moans, and it would become too much for the bespectacled antagonist. He would shove Arthur to the ground roughly, and enter him. No preparation. Just... enter. Then they'd rut, teeth and tongue clashing as they indulged in one another, like it was their only function in life)._

Arthur didn't bother going over to turn the extractor fan on - erection suddenly getting almost too aching to move too fast. Avoiding the bottles out and about on the bathroom floor was like an obstacle course of its own. By the time he tumbled into the shower and tossed off his trousers, the Briton was already way past half-mast and was wet at his tip already. Turning on the shower made Arthur verbally groan with relief. With the water trickling down his shoulders and quite a bit further, deep into the crevices the curves of his body provided. His hand shot out and rested against the wall, as Arthur allowed the water to run all over his body like some watery lubricant. His head tipped up towards the sky, and he listened to the sound of the shower pump whirring along with his shortening breath.

_(He wanted to run his hands all across that oiled up body. And so he did. The Briton smoothed his fingers over the lubricated dunes of muscles, absolutely fascinated by the slightly golden sheen they gave off. Looking down at his hands, he was amused to see how sleek they had gotten with one stroke. Their eyes connected, green on blue, and Arthur rose to his feet. He leant forwards and closed the gap between their bodies; sliding easily against the other's oiled skin, before his patience got lost. Their arms wrapped around one another, and they grinded with their grip being desperately hard to keep.)_

When Arthur started swaying on the spot, he knew he had to push himself into caving in. Swallowing, Arthur allowed his free hand - the one not trying to hold him steady on the spot - to slowly inch down the expanse of his pale-coloured side. There was something strangely satisfying about holding your own hips and pretending it was someone else touching them - especially when you had good hips like he did. While he didn't have much confidence in his body otherwise, the Englishman was definitely aware that he had good legs. Elegant and thin, they were. Nice arse too, if he didn't think so himself. He'd been told that fact one hell of a lot of times - so, like most things for him, he began to believe it.

Just as well. He didn't have very many other handsome features, what with eyebrows like golden caterpillars invading his face - yes, he was very bitter when it came to those. If you knew what was best for you, you wouldn't say a thing about them - and a natural scowl cursing his otherwise quite blessed qualities.

Arthur paused when his fingers came around and started to rub the cleft of his backside, dipping in with the sincere intention to finger himself while the mental image was hot and fresh in his mind. But rather typically, he ceased all function again. Arthur closed his eyes tightly, and allowed his fingers to slip further - spreading his legs apart for easier access. With the tips brushing the borders of his entrance, probing softly, the Englishman gave a small whining moan with want.

But his fingers still hesitated. While he unwillingly procrastinated, trying to pluck up the courage to thrust his own fingers into himself, Arthur's hips rocked forwards and back; simulating the motion already. If only he could get the feeling. Obviously, if Alfred and Francis had slept with him the night before, then he hadn't been able to finally finger himself after all. The fear to do so was entirely renewed.

With a sigh, Arthur slumped his head forwards heavily against the wall tiling and removed his hand from in-between his sweet cheeks. The shower was spewing steam all throughout the bathroom, spreading even thicker than it should without the extractor fan sipping the air away. The atmosphere surrounding, as a result, was sodden with heat and a dense feeling that made breathing that little bit harder. Not that Arthur noticed. His personal arousal was enough to make him pant without even touching it.

_(They took hold of him and began to thrust their hand up and down the shaft in hard strokes. Arthur could have sobbed at the feeling, pushing against that slick palm. The cock ring sealed around his length was almost murder, and he squeezed his legs together - trying to be able to deal with the rapid want, absolute urge, to orgasm. Yet, the ring stopped him from pushing over the edge, no matter how good and frantic the movement against his member felt. His mouth soon started forming words; pleads, even. Pleads that begged - yes, actually begged - whomever was jerking him off to let him have his release.)_

Almost ridden with cowardice, Arthur took hold of his shaft and began stroking. The thrusts were eager and desperate; aimed to help get himself off as soon as he possibly could. He wetted his lip, right before bursting out into a rough chorus of nameless moans. A couple of hundred years of being knowingly, at least slightly, homosexual told him exactly how to toss off a man and make it feel damned good; and he was no stranger to his own benefits. He ran his fingers over the very front, dipping into the slit and smearing pre-cum onto his already sticky fingertips. Tilting his head back, he revelled in the feeling of pleasure consuming him while the water washed him of last night's dirty mess.

In fact, he was too distracted to hear the creaking in the background and the small presence of scuffling steps. If only he had known.

_(The bar held his legs wide open, even though the touches made him want to close them in urgency. It was strange, that inner reflex making you wish to snap your legs together and protect yourself from the invasion - as if it was unwanted. When he felt something prod and probe, and finally push, all thoughts of 'unwanted' left his mind, and he lifted his hips upwards - accepting whatever expanse he could into his tight little body)._

He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the lines, the fantasies began to lose Alfred's characteristics and Alfred's face. The love-maker was ambiguous. But either way, they always smelt faintly of coffee. French or American, God only knew. They also smelt vaguely of roses. But; both their smiles felt like lies, and their words both were like poison.

Though he was addicted to the pulse. He couldn't get enough. Each mental image was more vigorous and detailed than the last. No matter what, they reminded him of a certain two people every single time. Arthur's legs trembled as he visualised it perfectly, hand surrounding his girth beating faster and faster by the passing second.

_(Finally, there was relief. Arthur moaned loudly, almost shouting as he pulled over the edge. It felt so complete - like the feeling one got after hearing the last note of an epic symphony. The music always ended after an atmospheric high. Needless to say, the atmosphere was so thick with fervency that it could have been bitten through)._

The Briton groaned, slumping a few inches and resting his body weight forwards; letting the majority of his body lay standing against the bathroom wall. No doubt, the wall wouldn't have liked that session very much. As Arthur panted heavily, recovering from his orgasm, he made a mental note to scrub the mess up while it wouldn't stain the tiles behind it. His legs were fumbling like jelly, and it was hard to hold himself steady as he stood. His mouth was opened wide, slight presence of saliva escaping the side of his lip from the visit to 'white hot bliss', while he tried to recover breath that he didn't even realise that he had lost.

...He stiffened when something cold was pressed to his behind.

Fingers, he identified quickly; cupping his naked bottom and then squeezing it. Startled, the British nation turned his head - only to have the movement ceased by another hand. They covered his mouth, just as he was about to speak in shock and outrage. Manoeuvred so his eyes were facing the wall tiles again, Arthur was too initially surprised to move. Especially when whoever was behind him nipped playfully at the nape of his neck. Though it only took one word for the Englishman to know _exactly_ who was there.

"Bonjour." Francis chuckled under his breath, calmly kissing the curvature of Arthur's bare shoulders.

* * *

**Here you are. Smut and Francis!**  
**Originally the order on the kink meme was Alfred's Part - Arthur's feelings - Arthur's actions. But because the end of Alfred's part is after both of the Arthur parts (while the start was at the same time as them), I thought it would be a little less confusing if Arthur's thoughts came first.**

**The 'bang' heard in Alfred's Part is yet to come, so, hold on tight to see what it was :'D!**

**Oh. And there IS an explanation to how Francis got into the bathroom. Yes, Arthur did lock the door. No, Francis wasn't in there before. If someone guesses, I'll be rather happy XD.**

**Ta guys. Hopefully the next update will be up soon! 8D. **

_(Smut is getting closer. Ohonhon. I promise it'll get much more detailed and vigorous than the original fill)._


	5. Chapter 5

**Right, sorry for taking a while to reply again! But, I hope I have made up for this – because here, m'dears, is one huge update.**

**Don't have much to comment on right now, so I'll let you get on!**

**If you find any mistakes, then blame it on the fact that I am shattered (it's only half seven o'clock, what the hell?) and the fact that this is self-beta'd. My girlfriend does it normally, but she doesn't follow the story, orz. I don't want to jab her into it... poor girl is busy enough... (Love you, by the way).**

**Also... from the very beginning, this fic has been both USUK and FrUK. I will be glorifying and criticising both, so _please_ if you want to bring up a debate about how you were astonished there was FrUK in here too, then I will personally flog you :P. As if the prequel to this was not a warning to that...**

* * *

The first instinctive thing that Arthur did was to grip at the wall, still breathing huskily from his euphoric high - though now, his blood was curdling for a very different reason. His fingers slowly clenched, scrapping the nails against the bathroom tiles as his body and mind both struggled to find their bearings. Behind him, the man nuzzled at his neck; giving short, teasing bites to the exposed flesh available to him. Had he been questioned, Arthur would have had no answer to why he did not shove Francis away from the get-go. His head must have been foggy from the steam and the recently quenched arousal, though now a very different sort of urgency was rushing through him.

"Francis-What are you...?" Arthur let the sound finally beat out from his throat, question in his mind finally becoming aired after what must have been two or three minutes of silence. He quivered forwards a few inches, pressed against the tiled wall, as Francis's goatee tickled the roughly sensitive skin at his neck. Eyes squeezed close in confusion and denial, he stayed still and hoped that the other would let go of his body soon.

"I want to talk to you." Francis told him, honestly, chuckling slightly at Arthur's conduct. The Englishman squirmed, trying to buck himself away from the hand squeezing his bottom without guilt. "Although, I was not expecting to see such a lovely display. Who exactly were you thinking about, mon petit lapin?"

Arthur yelped as the Frenchman's hand went too far for him to ignore; fingertips actually managing to dip into the beginning of the cleft, before he jumped forwards and whipped his arm around to smack the blasted Frenchie with all the strength he could muster - which, when your legs felt like jelly, was much less than the Briton would usually give.

"W-What the hell do you think you are doing?" Arthur shouted at him, and Francis quickly responded with actions. When his wrist was grabbed by the Frenchman, his green orbs opened wide. Startled, he tried to pull back, tugging against the grip and frantically backing away - although the still running shower water made the bath slippery enough to lubricate his feet into losing their balance. He fell backwards, falling out of the side of the bath through the shower curtain; legs spread eagle hanging while his back and head hit the floor with a bang. The Brit groaned loudly, and he would have nursed where he had bumped himself - had he not been watched.

Francis smirked, getting rather a good eyeful of the Briton's body as he peered over the side of the bath down at him and his fully naked and available form. His long, distinct fingers brushed against the bottom of Arthur's foot, and the Brit immediately snatched them away protectively. The concentrated blush on his face could not have been missed - fuelled by his earlier orgasm and the embarrassment holding him now.

"Mm. You know, Angleterre, you do not half give me a fantastic view." He told Arthur appreciatively, blue eyes raking over the Englishman's rather bare torso. Arthur responded quickly by squeezing his legs up to his chest to protect his vitals' dignity, while his hands snapped up to obscure his alluringly pink nipples. A slightly feminine display on that respect, but anything to rip Francis's eyes off of important bodily bits - not that nipples were important to him - was a good thing.

"Leave off it!" The Briton shouted, glaring up at the Frenchman with practically the intent to kill. However, within seconds his glance had softened - purely because of the sight he found before him. Arthur swallowed thickly, realising that Francis had snuck into the shower with all of his clothes on. So much for being an exhibitionist - but then, Arthur did not need to leave things to his imagination.

The white shirt was very well chosen, in Arthur's private opinion; clinging tightly to Francis's skin with crinkles in only the most abundant of places. He could see the lines of muscular structure dangerously clearly - dangerous, because _dear Lord _the Frenchman's figure was dynamite - and especially the soft peach skin tone was portrayed perfectly. As for Francis's jeans... well, it would be an understatement to say that Arthur could see why women liked him so much. That said, the tightness at the Frenchman's crotch area could be attributed to other things rather than just the wet nature of the shower water.

Coming to think of the shower, and Francis's presence, Arthur snapped a glance over at the doorway. How exactly was he here? There was no disturbance of the lock at all, and he stared at it with dubious suspicion. As far as Arthur could see, the damned thing was still locked. Apart from the opened cupboards surrounded by bottles strewn about from last night that Arthur still refused to clear up, the Briton saw no way for the Frenchman to come in. The theory that he came in from some estranged route that Arthur did not know, at least in that respect, was quickly ignored. The final option was the window, but, from the bath/shower the beginning of the window was in perfect view, along with the blind over it to protect his bollock-naked figure from the peeping outside world. It had not been disturbed, as far as Arthur could see.

"That... _That makes no sense_." Arthur said, verbally adding his thoughts. The Frenchman quirked his eyebrow, though smiled as if he knew exactly what Arthur was referring to regardless.

"Whatever does not make sense, mm?" He prompted, amused and interested. While Arthur shifted to his feet and shot over to the towel rack to cover himself, the Frenchman expressed a slight sigh of disappointment and turned the shower off at the dials attached to the bath.

Wrapping a rather intriguing yellow and fluffy bath towel around his entire figure - including his chest; you could never be too safe when a frog was around, Arthur reminded himself. Despite this, his provocative legs were still more or less on show, where the fabric ran out. That was a bother._Heck_! If he could, Arthur would have worn an entire burqa of chastity to keep from Francis's prying eyes.

Arthur went to the lock and rattled it just in case, trying to figure out whatever the meaning of this was. It looked undisturbed, or so his eyes told him. Surely if the lock was picked, then there was supposed to be a dent at the very least? Many nations would confirm that Francis was good with his hands - oh _yes_ - but Arthur did not attribute him to be a lock picker extraordinaire.

When Francis finally opened his mouth, Arthur turned around - wet hair flicking water about - and asked him the 'million-pound-question'. "How, in the name of all that is both Holy and hideously wrong with the world; did you get inside this room?" Arthur growled at him. "Do you watch Jonathan Creek in your spare time or something? Might I remind that that is a investigational drama - not resource for ideas!"

The Frenchman scoffed and climbed out of the bath, making his way towards Arthur. Straight away, Arthur picked up one of the bottles from the floor and chucked it in the other blond's direction, '_self-protective intent_'. Francis dodged, the shampoo practically exploded on the wall behind, shooting his hands up defensively in the universal gesture of peace. Arthur growled in annoyance. Could he not do the decent thing and take his comeuppance?

"_See_! See what you did? Now do not come a single step closer!" Arthur grumbled at him, pointing drastically at the sticky shampoo mess. Francis halted as commanded, and opened his mouth to speak about how he was not the one that threw the bottle. But, the Englishman classically and hastily interjected to cut him off. "What are you doing here?"

A hefty sigh followed from Francis, of whom deflated his shoulders and rubbed at his forehead. "Mon dieu... Do I really have to spell it out for you? It is not that difficult to figure out." He begun, stating it in monotone, like he had been asked the same question many times before in his life, or found it so elementary. Fuck, Arthur would not have been surprised about _that_. "...A lot of bathrooms - including this one - have a safety lock, which allows people to open the door from the outside in case of emergency without breaking it down. I merely turned it, and here we are. Do you want me to go through the exact procedure, or would that explanation suffice, _Arthur_? ...Oh, and do not worry. I doubt that Alfred would be able to figure out that little trick."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and picked up another bottle, arching his arm back to threaten throwing the second while his other hand struggled to hold the towel closed. He could not believe he missed such an obvious explanation; but his thoughts had already strayed elsewhere, to more _important_ matters. "Yes, yes - thank you for that very helpful enlightenment. Now allow me to push the question first and foremost on my mind."

Francis let a small smirk form on his lips.

"_First_, you come into my house - God knows how - and do what I am only inclined to say was 'rape' me. Yes, _rape_, because by jove! I would not sleep with either you or Alfred if I was not in some way forced! _Second_, you linger here without reason. And _thirdly_, you come into my bathroom while I shower, you sneak up on me and start touching me, and now you have the sheer audacity to act like not a single fucking thing is wrong!" Arthur scathed at him, throwing his hands in the air with both aggravation and upset. "So, tell me, Francis. What the hell are you doing here?"

The Frenchman allowed his so far bemused expression drop - _finally_ something got him to break that hideous smile of his, Arthur internally exclaimed - and he watched the corresponding nation with a look that could not truly be placed. That was the annoying thing about Francis; you could never quite figure out what he was thinking. Even if he gave a clue for one thing, it would probably be the other. Unpredictability must have been his middle name.

It was a problem that a lot of younger nations did not seem to grasp; how easy was it for someone with his sexual stimulus to be confused with pure, unthinking genophilia? All the others seemed to think that Francis was just a perverted ambassador, someone who just wanted to sleep with everyone almost mindlessly and be done with it - and _Heavens_, Arthur did his best to promote that image, if not just to annoy the Frenchman in front of him. Honestly, most of that was just for vengeance. But, unlike the others, Arthur _saw_ something.

There was a reason that Arthur found himself falling in love with Francis, alongside the realistic infatuation that the Englishman found for Alfred. As much as the two of them had been known to hate each other for many, many years, the Brit and the Frog had harboured a secretive yet mutual respect for one another. Maybe it could go one step further than that. A 'fascination' if you will. They conquered one another, fought with and against one another - and even now, their relations were a source of constant yet sarcastic debate. Much as the British joked about the French - their frogs legs, baguettes, twirly moustaches and cheese, with a tendency to being 'surrender-monkeys' - and the French joked about the British; it could not be denied that they _took notice of each other_. They recognised the other's potential, and in a way admired it.

To him, Francis was the most complex minds he had ever had the pleasure, or displeasure, to have met. Unpredictable, sometimes unreliable and irrational - but Lord, if he was dedicated to a cause, then he would fight for it. If he and his people were dying, he would hold on and linger for his dear life. France, as a nation, was intimately whole. That never ceased to amaze him. Arthur, bless his soul, could not resist the heart of a man determined to have a resolve for life even if there was no reason for living. Truthfully, in that way, he and Francis were like two peas in a pod.

"In answer to your question; I am here, Arthur, because there is something that I wish to fight for." Francis replied stoically, and inside the Englishman's chest there is life. His heart aches at the sentiment, enthused to hear justification to what he knew all along - Francis would battle for dear life. Though there was anger in him, and perhaps for the intrusion it would certainly remain for quite a long time, the Brit had quite instantly found his harmful words swallowed in his throat.

"..._Francis_..." Arthur finds himself speaking without thought, but a small smile from the other blond nation makes his lips seal once more. The smile itself felt detached - as if Francis was only showing it out of internal obligation. He only became aware that the Frenchman had moved forwards when the nation was backed up against the porcelain sink behind him; Francis barely a few inches in front. The Frenchman reached forwards and cupped his cheek, and Arthur was immediately aware of just how hot his face felt in comparison. An entirely sensible part of him was shouting that he should slap away that hand as soon as it touched him. But, for some reason he would not be able to explain, he did not.

They lingered there for a moment, with their unusual intimacy, as Francis rubbed his thumb along the jut of the Briton's cheekbone.

"It is not a sin for a person to want to act on their desires - or at least, when their true desires are something pure." He continued, while Arthur was uncharacteristically all-ears. Within himself, he blamed the conduct by which Francis was taking to be the reason why he faltered now. "Alike Alfred; I, too, have loved you."

Arthur tried to shake his head, and immediately the most resounding word in his head became voiced. "No. Look, that cannot..."

"There you are again, denying things that are just too obvious." Francis said, with a soft and sullen laugh. It takes Arthur's breath away. How, on Earth, could the Frenchman hold himself so neatly while uttering these things - when both Arthur and Alfred had previously waned?

Unlike with Alfred, Arthur had no basis to call bluff. It was so easy to accuse a man that had left him once in their lives to do so again. The 'trust' card was an easy card for him to play, and it worked so well in unison with Arthur's own insecurities. For Francis, however, he could not immediately deny it. Because whatever the Englishman brought up, it could be countered with his own feelings; say he told Francis that the man would not be in love with him because the two of them were enemies - Francis could very well reply asking why it was possible that Arthur felt that way, and Francis was not allowed to feel the same. It was an impossible puzzle to crack.

"What about Alfred?" Arthur said quietly, and Francis withdrew his offending hand. It was clear on the French nation's face that he had once again anticipated the question, but this time he greeted it with more enthusiasm.

"That boy is young and naive, and short-sighted at the very best of times. But, despite being childish he does have qualities that are very hard to ignore and forget. From the beginning, ever since his little eyes set sight on us, he has always been true. Annoying and blunt, or as charming as that may be." He replied, while Arthur found himself hanging onto every word. "He knows exactly what he wants, Arthur. Which is exactly why I gave him the opportunity to have you. When he came to me for help to capture your heart, there was... there was just no way that I could turn him away."

The air is filled with a pregnant pause, and the Englishman's eyes immediately flock to the door; regretting leaving the American so suddenly. Especially without voicing his own opinion, and the feeling of adoration he harboured for that bright, young spark. His chin was suddenly seized and manoeuvred so his vision settled on Francis, and Francis alone. The other let go of his jaw, only to slide the hand away to settle against his hip. Instinctively, Arthur backed up again only to be reminded of the proximity of the sink now pinning him against that wet shirt and chest.

"Because, mon amour, in that way - he is just like me. He is pure. Likewise, I know precisely what I wish to have; and I will do all I can to make you accept that fact, Arthur. We both know that you love me too. I will not allow you to revoke that privileged happiness of mine."

"This is not making any sense..." Arthur complained. "Why are you doing this now?"

"Is that not obvious?" Francis replied, tilting his head to the side in a way that seemed a little childish and vulgar to a grown man, but it did indeed tug of Arthur's heartstrings as intended. "Until last night, for Alfred and I, our infatuation for you was just an impossible dream. There was no evidence that you would want to have either of us at all - although, instinctively I suppose I have always known. But; would you act on a loving impulse, if you had no idea if the other side felt the same? You are no risk strategist, mon cher. Neither am I."

Oddly enough, Arthur was flabbergasted into understanding exactly what the Frenchman was talking about. It was so annoying when he talked sense. Once again, he proved Francis's point with his own situation quite clearly. Just how long had he held feelings for the two of them? Even now, he had not said a thing to either Francis or Alfred about his insistent longing to snuggle up in either of their arms; to nestle in the warmth the other gave off, as he stroked his hand upon their chest, and they kissed his forehead with a darling sense of commitment and love surrounding. His fantasies were not solely dependent on sexual frustrations, need that fact be reminded. If anything, it was the sense of belonging that he craved the very most.

That probably was the problem with all of this; and also why Francis, along with Alfred, was so hard to trust. Alfred left him before - that concern was highly obvious and one that Arthur sincerely did not want to further address. While Francis was potentially a liability. Yes, he was not just a genophilic pervert, and Heavens he knew full well that the Frenchman could make one hell of a wondrous lover if he stayed committed to it. However, therein laid a different problem. It was strange that Arthur seemed to find himself going fervent for two people with the same damned faults. Both of those two were unpredictable with where their loyalty lied, and they both had what could only be described as 'short-term attention span'. For Alfred, it was probably because the American's head was high in the blooming clouds. But for Francis, it manifested in the form of lovers.

How many times had he heard that Francis had been with somebody else, another new person, or started a new relationship? With men and women, humans and nations, both? To Arthur, it was clear that the Frenchman was in a way impatient. He could not settle down, no matter who the person was or how they acted. Even if they were absolutely compatible in personality and taste, there always seemed to be something wrong. Not wrong with the poor person Francis left, of course. The Frenchman was always the first to compliment his ex-lovers. But, instead - and this was pure observation on Arthur's part talking - the problem laid on Francis's shoulders. He never did find what he was looking for. You would think that a person would be able to settle after about eleven hundred years of life; especially when humans thought that they can find theirs in a matter of one or two years, and it was not as if Francis did not look.

That said_, _Arthur was just the same.

Whatever meant that Francis would stay? He could walk away the very second that Arthur could not bring him what he wanted. Maybe, with Alfred hanging on the line as well, that was a good thing; but it was not that simple. There was the chance that Arthur could end up with Alfred but pine after Francis for the rest of his days. Nobody wanted that.

Surely the Frenchman could not be suggesting that he could not have gotten settled, because he did not have _him_?

"But, Arthur..." Francis must have noticed the stunned and confused pause, and very appropriately popped the bubble of tension. The Brit finally realised that he was still absolutely rigid, and that a small part of Francis's voice was wavering. It was subtle, but just enough to hear. It had been a long time since Arthur had said a thing to him, and longer since his face had been filled with anything other than pure, white shock. "...just like Alfred and myself, you must know what you want as well. Deep down, though you may object - I can tell that you desire for the two of us in a romantic sense, if not far more than physical."

Francis somehow managed to seize Arthur's hand, and the Englishman only just had the head on his shoulders to realise that it had been that way for a while. The warmth in his palm did not feel like anything new. But then, maybe the hand clutching his had only just appeared - but the connection felt like they had held it for a very, very long time. That seemed far more likely.

"Mon amour. I need you to understand this - and you, of all people, should be able to recognise that I am not lying." He added firmly. "I love you. Not because of lust or out of a desire to currently rip off that towel of yours and spread open those lovely thighs of yours - though, and I told you that I will not lie, that certainly does help. But instead, it is because... you are something special to me. I want you to be mine."

With that, Francis leant in. For a heart stopping second, Arthur was petrified that he was going for his lips, but instead the corresponding pair gave him a soft peck on the cheek. Then the other side and back again - how very French of him, Arthur inwardly commented. The Briton breathed sharply, air getting caught on nothing in his throat as silence continued to grip him. Their fingers begun to entwine; linking together and holding on tight.

"What about our history? All of the battles. The hate and the taunts and-We've always been in dispute... we-" Arthur queried, finding that he was increasingly breathless. Francis smirked, and moved until their foreheads were pressed plush against one another's. Their lips were only inches away from touching, and Arthur could feel it. It was so damned close.

"-If _you_ can bypass that as well, Arthur, than so may I." Francis replied, cool as a cucumber in vocal tone, but inside he was almost in pieces. The only way Arthur could tell was that his fingertips were quaking ever so slightly - just like Alfred's had, but less obviously. Trust; no matter how one tried to hide inner feelings, it always became noticed in the end. It may have felt slightly uncharacteristic to even Arthur himself - but damn it all, there was a gigantic part of him that wanted this. Francis was so close - _so close_ - and all he wanted to do was be encircled by those dripping wet arms and have his living daylights sucked out of him with kisses. Whatever was stopping him?

Perhaps one thing, and one thing only...

"...Alfred is..." Arthur asked, and Francis made a soft humming noise in immediate reply.

"The two of us want you, and it is up to you to decide who you choose in the end, mon cher." Came the belated response which Arthur expected and feared. A lump forced its way into his throat, and the Englishman found a sense of dread boil in both his chest and stomach. It looked like Francis could tell, because as soon as that happened the Frenchman's hand splayed onto his towel-clothed stomach as if attempting to quench it - to harness the dubiousness and negativity in him and discard it.

"But... we do not expect you to choose now. Neither of us would be that cruel. So fret not, mon petit lapin. We have come to the conclusion that we can accept the other's presence, for the mean time. Just, do not let us hang on for too long, non?" Francis added gently, slowly massaging the Brit's abdomen to calm his spirits. "We have been waiting for this chance for a very long time."

"You think I will be able to make an important decision like that?" Arthur mumbled, pulling back slightly, pressing right up against the sink with literally not one millimetre left between them.

"You must." Francis said, quite seriously. "Eventually, Arthur, your choice will become clear to you. Though that is a worry for another time."

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. He was not sure whether it was out of disbelief, or whether he just felt like denying it completely. To think, two brilliant things could happen in one day. But, combined together it might turn out to be a disaster. At the end of this, he would have to eventually break one of their hearts. What sort of person would find any sort of comfort in that?

This - _this_ was driving him absolutely _mental_.

"How... how could you know so much about all of this? Love, or 'amour' or whatnot? You seem to know fucking everything - what the hell is your secret supposed to be? I don't... get it..." The Englishman asked abruptly, dropping his glance so it stared anywhere else other than those eyes. The deep azures bore down at him as if they were staring straight into his soul. Why did Francis always know so much? Fuck, he knew everything.

He spotted Francis's smile from the apex of his vision. It just could not have been missed. Had he ever seen Francis smile that widely before?

"I don't exactly know everything. Don't you know why I understand where everyone else is coming from, Arthur...? It's because I've been feeling this for you for hundreds of years. When I see other people suffering because of that little thing called 'love' - I have to help. It is just an obligation for me. Like Alfred's own situation, need I remind you. Because I do not want them to go through what I have. Don't you see Arthur? ...You've made me who I am by just breathing."

Arthur looked up, stunned expression on his face. Truth, satisfaction and something unsaid and deep was littered there before him. That was when the two of them finally met eye to eye, sincerely.

That was, too, the very moment that they could no longer help themselves. They simultaneously pressed forwards, locking lips with no sense of fierce urgency, and no stubborn and ruthless mashing. Because they had had hundreds upon hundreds of years to wait - why would they throw away all of that for sudden and heartless clash of teeth and tongues? Slowly, Arthur melted into him and Francis could only smile with the hugest sense of relief into the lips below.

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**And there we are for now :'). Enjoy the fluffiness.**

**Next update will contain, hopefully, _one hell of a lot of drama_. I'm looking forward to it.**

**It might come in the Christmas holiday, but, I have life-defining exams this January. Hopefully I'll be able to find the spare time for it~!**

**Thank you very much!**

**By the way, on that... now we've seen them both, what does everyone think?**  
**Also - should a definitive person be chosen by the end of the fill for who Arthur chooses - or would you like it open ended? Right now, I could do it either way.**


	6. Chapter 6

_Due to the comments on changing the tags from America & England if it is not going to end up that way... I've changed it to just England being the tag. This is purely to be agnostic over who Arthur will end up with. Which, I should point out, I don't actually know who he is going to be with. Honestly, I don't. So, your comments do help to swing the vote. Please tell me what you think?_

_Warnings for smut and draaaaamaaaa~!_

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**And Two Devious Wolves...**

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It could have surprised both of them and anybody who had the fortune - or misfortune - to see, though their kiss was far more sensual and slow that either had imagined; lips gliding softly against each other and heads tilted ever so slightly to the one side; indulging in something that was far more anticipated and special between them than a sudden rush of lust. While Arthur and Francis could fall into the category of the expectantly perverse, capable of lusting without love, when two and two finally come together, the outcome became something the rest of the world perhaps might have seen as obscene. Shocking, above all.

When Arthur looked up into those darker blue eyes, there was something inside himself that squirmed. A shuffling, uncomfortable feeling that left him de-motivated and drained. While they could fight for their countries, and they did, with words; energy spewing between them and insults igniting into fireworks of apparent hatred and deceit in the air - however in reality, his heart always ended up more burdened than when conflicts begun. It was like Francis sucked the life straight out of him. Only Francis left him this breathless.

Alfred endeared him entirely. There was a happiness that the American gave him that replenished him and gave him strength - peace of mind, and relief from the saturation of life. Alfred presented him with joy, as well as sadness. He gave him emotions that ran rampant in his body and set his world ablaze with heat and desire and appreciation. The man was the reason why resolve flooded through his veins and he gained the aspiration to fight or take flight. Alfred was his one and only inspiration; the thrill, the adventure and the excitement.

On the other hand, Francis was the complete opposite. By the very nature of Francis's existence, their history and the recollection of events spurring hatred for each other deep inside their bodies; it was obvious that they should have loathed one another from the beginning. The French were constantly trying to ruin the British and vice versa. They were the destroyers of one another; tearing apart the other's will to continue on in his world. 'The bitter rival' suited the description best. It was Francis that had to take his heart out straight through his chest and crush it in his hands, and he to do the same in return. A mutual understanding of conflict arose between them.

In contrast to Alfred - his lovely, darling Alfred, the potential love of his life - Francis was nothing. He was supposed to be the one to make him hate the world, to make his emotions whittle away into nothing and to make his heart crumble like ash in his capable hand. Yet, he could not help but be drawn to him. From the very beginning, their relationship had been nothing but unadulterated fascination. They were fascinated, intrigued, _aroused_ by what the other brought. Perhaps it was a sin to fall in love with your enemy, but it was a process that was shockingly natural. If you fight for most of your life specifically to bring another person down, you begin to live for that person, and that person alone.

So this was it. Alfred, the creator of emotion and passion within him, or Francis, the one that could strip him away to nothing and still find something to love him for. Optimism against pessimism. It was a strangely European thing, as well, to start to crave your own demise. To fail was satisfying, to cry was a godsend, to die was a relief. To live up to your expectations of failure gave you a sense of purpose, in knowing that you meant nothing. So, was he a masochist that wanted to fall, the life drained out of him while he leant his heart to one and only one; or a man desperate to have the life breathed back into himself? To live again as a rejuvenated man? ...Happy?

Their kiss lasted far longer than they thought, chastely leaving them utterly breathless. Arthur gasped for air, eyes crooked to half-lidded as he observed the equally panting man in front of him. His fingers had somehow tangled themselves in the other's golden locks, tugging some of the strands out as he gently ran them through. Francis always had lovely hair. He had never ceased being jealous of the fact. Even in childhood, their relationship was just the same. Less want to fuck, but a similar sense of longing and want to rip to shreds all the same.

"How long have you loved me, Francis?" Arthur murmured softly, pawing now at the other's wet and white collar. His voice came out as a wisp. Life sucked straight out of him, indeed. Why was it always Francis that made him this way? He felt like he could just collapse onto the ground and lay there until the world crashed into nothingness around him, just existing until it was all over. As long as Francis was there holding onto him, he could just linger forever. It was the only thing he needed. The only thing he _had_ to feel.

In response, Francis merely chuckled. His hands lifted and started to massage the flesh of the Briton's legs. The A breath forced its way straight out of Arthur's lungs, and he winced away from the touch; trying to withdraw back, although there was nowhere to go. Arthur did not understand it. He was not this submissive. He did lot let lovers walk all over him, and by Gods he did not act like there was nothing on his mind other than his partner's name - _but yet_, Francis was doing something - he did not know what - that made him putty in his hands. Had Arthur already known for certain otherwise, he would have accused Francis of magic by now. How easily had he fallen under the other's spell?

The Frenchman kissed his lips softly again, and scooped his arms underneath the Englishman's body, squishing the squidgy and firm bottom Arthur had at his disposal through his towel. He gave a muffle into the kiss, and latched on with a surprised (and none-so-manly) squeak when he was lifted into the air and brought a few feet to the side. Francis parked him back down on the bathroom side, clear of the sink, kicking away one or two of the bottles left strewn there from last night out of the way.

At least in this position, Arthur did not have the taps shoved straight into his back, though the space was equally limited. Francis slotted himself straight in-between Arthur's legs before the Englishman had even realised; nudging the chick-yellow towel further and further up his legs. He drew his head away from those lips, and stared at him expectantly.

"...How long-Love-_How long_?" Arthur insisted. The Frenchman looked at him carefully, as if trying to think of the correct way to approach his answer.

"Remember when we met?" He asked, watching the emotions flash through Arthur's green eyes. Arthur sometimes loathed just how easy he was, at times, to read. He was like an open book.

Of course he remembered. It had been such a long time ago, but the memory stuck out like a sore thumb in his mind. The scene had replayed itself so often in his thoughts before. Every time that Francis had been on his mind, the image of that ever so slightly larger boy lingering on the cobblestoned beach, wind-wept but beautiful hair and the sea setting his eyes prominent with azure appeared in his head. Just two or three seconds worth of a single image that taunted him endlessly throughout his whole life. Taunting him with wonder - with want to return back to that day, and affirm what he wanted to have as his own.

"Back then, by the rocks?" The Briton queried in return, and Francis smiled freely - pleased that the other had recalled. His fingers softly grazed the underside of Arthur's towel, teasing with want to dip inside.

"Since then. We were so young. You fascinated me from the beginning - that little boy that could not speak a word I understood, so gruff and peculiar. I wanted you." Francis said confidently, leaning in to smother Arthur with his chest; pushing down against the smaller bodied man's ribs in a way that was uncomfortable but oddly satisfying. His mouth ran from a kiss on Arthur's pale petal pink lips, to the jut of his jaw, and down to nip at the squishier part of the man's neck.

"So you had me." Arthur commented, memories of historic battles in the past flooding straight through his mind. His arms lifted up and wrapped around Francis's neck, pulling him further down. The wet clothes squeezed in-between their bodies made both of their skin relatively moist.

"Hastings, oui. 1066 was a good year. We had many victories, and better yet, you came to me." Francis said, lips peaking in a truthful yet marginally bitter smile.

"But I did not let you have me for long. We resisted..."

"How regretful that we had to let half of you burn, cher." The Frenchman's fingers pushed up underneath the towel, and Arthur gasped. His eyes rammed themselves closed, eyelids folding as he squeezed them tightly as if he were in pain. It was not entirely the sensitivity of his body or the touch that had seemingly burnt him, but the recollection of what Francis and _that man_ had done. The scars, if you looked deeply enough, still existed on Arthur's body. The bitter after-taste lingered on the Briton's voice as he finally barked out a small titter.

"How deceitful of _you_ to kill them all. You and that bastard-"

"-Your bastard _King_-"

"-Over one hundred thousand dead. How could you have slept at night?" Arthur asked, grinning in a marginally crooked manner. He did not like the memory of that _man._The man that tried to change him, and tried to make him submit to his will. But then again, it was not all William the Conqueror that poisoned him with his hate for the English north. He could remember how Francis had cried with laughter. Well, now, in the future, Francis was not laughing.

"I was only destroying what you did not need. Purging you. You survived now, did you not?" Francis murmured gruffly, stroking the smaller man's inner thighs while he held in a groan. His teeth bit down at Arthur's neck, and suckled until the patch was reddened and marked. He received a stiff whack on the back of his head, and sudden the hold in his hair tightened; jerking the Frenchman's head right back till he and the Briton were seeing eye to eye.

"I was never the same." Arthur said seriously, giving him a warning look - hoping the Frenchman would keep it below the collar bones. The other did not agree, per-say, but withdrew his lips to look for another activity to occupy his wandering hands and mouth.

"I loved how you still fought. We tried to change you, but you had none of it. I commend it, mon amour." He replied, scowling in return to the Englishman's harsh and accusing glance. They may have felt love for each other, but the fight still was alive between them. It was just another way to steal their soul straight out of their chests. "You were so stubborn, and I wanted to see you rise up and become great."

"As I did."

"As you did - and it has been driving me wild ever since. No matter how many times to tried to drag you down, you resisted. I hated you so much, because I never stopped wanting you." Francis continued his explanation, rubbing his fingers in little circles at the Briton's thighs. Underneath, Arthur rocked up and strived for the touch. His eyes rolled close with a sensuous gasp. Francis could play him just like an instrument, if he wanted. With just a few fleeting touches in the correct places, he would conjure the sounds enough to create a symphony. "'Unhand me, frog' you'd say. How bitter of you. Dieu, did I adore it."

"I wanted to crush you. You and I felt the same for so long." Arthur moaned, pushing back against the touch.

"We both wanted the other to fall, but how is it that we both skipped over the other's identical feelings to each other's hearts too?"

After a pause, Arthur spoke the darker part filling both their minds; "We both wanted to fuck each other too."

"So we shall. Though if it were just to fuck you, I would have done so a long time ago. You have fallen, I have fallen - this world is not _our_ playground anymore. There's only one thing left for us, mon cher." He said softly in return, leaning forwards and brushing his fingers along the lower line of the other man's collar bone. For a second, Arthur seemed heavily distracted. Francis tilted his head partly to the side, trying to evaluate what ever could have been wrong.

"Alfred-" Arthur begun, before Francis immediately rose his fingers and pressed the very tips of three to his lips, silencing the man before he could ruin the moment. Francis tutted, and smiled to try dismiss whatever thought the Englishman was having. Those deep green eyes shot over to the door, almost pleadingly. Not wanting to be angered, Francis took hold of Arthur's head and brought his chin upwards until the nation was forced to look at him.

"-Hush, my sweet. This world is his now, and you can go to him later. While I... well, I want the real prize for my efforts. For the both of us."

Their eyes caught contact, and the connection became inseparable. The world was filled with silence, but there was a mutual understanding between them that both could tap into. They stared at one another with their mouths in natural frowns and a blush like of primrose-coloured dust brushed onto their cheeks. Wordlessly, Arthur lifted his hips up to allow Francis to remove the towel from his lower body; leaving him naked and open for the Frenchman to use however he wished. Though Arthur was not going to merely spread his legs like a good little lover. Or pet.

He pulled out from Francis's grasp, leaning forwards to tease the Frenchman with lips to the tip of that pointed nose. Instead of hopping off of the counter, like Francis seemed to expect (the man took a step back when Arthur pulled away to give him room), Arthur climbed up until he was kneeling on the counter-top. The other watched with a questioning quirk of his eyebrow as Arthur turned around and pushed his torso up against the tiled wall of his bathroom, presenting his back to the other nation. The cold made him wince, but not enough to make him want to bring himself away.

"...Now, if I said that earlier was a better sight, I would undoubtedly be lying." Francis commented, bemused by the way that his partner was acting. The slightly younger of the two shot a predatory glance over his shoulder, as if asking what the hell the Frenchman was waiting for. Pressed plush against the wall, his bottom stuck out just perfectly. His legs were spread slightly, almost enough to show the opening into his body, and definitely enough to be inviting. It was not like Arthur was a virgin, nor did he expect Francis to treat him gently.

Quietly, the Frenchman reached down and picked up a bottle; half chucking it onto the side in his haste. A brief glance to the doorway reaffirmed that it was definitely locked, and that they would be undisturbed. He eyed Arthur suspiciously, wondering if the nation would mind that Alfred would be shut out. Or perhaps, right now, Arthur was too distracted to think straight. Francis would not remind him. He would do the best he could to make sure it was _his_ name on the tip of the Englishman's tongue.

Arthur shuddered slightly, and Francis frowned in reaction. "Are you sure you are fine with this, cher?"

Before the other could deny him the right to touch him, the French nation popped open the bottle and squeezed whatever was inside onto his fingers. The stuff was syrupy, with a silky silver/white sheen that made Francis assume that the viscous liquid was shampoo. He hoped that the double penetration Arthur took the night before had not torn anything within him; otherwise this would certainly sting.

"...You... You had me last night, hadn't you?" Arthur said, closing his eyes and dropping his head to rest it on the cold tile in front, preparing for the contact. "This... this should be fine..." The key word being 'should'.

Francis purposely said nothing.

Instead, he leant over and pressed a small kiss to one of Arthur's plain cheeks - to which the Englishman clenched and tried to arch away from the affection - before pulling himself up so that he was kneeling on the bathroom surface alongside him. He casually rubbed the makeshift lubrication on his fingers, trying to coat each and every bit fluently. Despite everything, he did not want to hurt him. The time for blood and tears was to be over; the time for _sweat_ and _moans_ was now. So he hoped.

The shampoo bubbled and began to lather, and Francis could not help be amused. He was going to make a mess out of the Briton with this stuff - although at least he would be overly cleaned. Still, it was an image that came with erotica; just imagining the froth pooling out of Arthur's body and dripping in lines down those opened legs of his made him lose his breath. Without consulting Arthur first, Francis closed the gap between _his_ back and his front, letting the wet clothes push against the already moist skin. Rutting carefully, he bit down on the shell of Arthur's ear and waited for a stifled breath or the rock of the hips to prove that he was welcomed.

A command came with a soft '..._nn_...' leaving the sanctity of the slightly younger blond's throat, and the press of his soft cheek to Francis's groin. The Frenchman himself growled in response, closing his eyes and trying to keep himself under control. Despite him being experienced, the world over; it was different when spending time with someone that you did, honestly, want to have some than _anything_. Obsessively, even. The smallest sound made his arousal twitch in his soggy jeans, and he had to control himself from not breaking and having what he always wanted.

"...Let me explain, frog. I don't usually rush into sex..." Arthur interrupted, voice waving slightly. As if he was scared of losing his dignity by their actions. Never, as Francis thought with a soft sigh.

"If we were rushing, _amour_, I would have had you years ago. I would not call over a thousand years '_rushing'_." He assured.

More than the sex, though, Francis wanted to hold Arthur lovingly. He wanted to be in love, not to just let his emotions run wild until he was sated. He wanted to hold Arthur's hand and show him a whole new world.

He kissed Arthur's shoulders, and found himself feeling glad that there was no shouts for him to get a move on, or to '_just touch (him) already!'_. Perhaps he understood, too, how what they had should be treated as delicate as glass. Their movements were slow and subtle; just enough to let one another know that this was what they wanted. This was okay. They did not need to change to love what they had. To anyone else, the touch as Francis finally placed a hand on Arthur's hip, to move the flesh so that he had a wider area into which to slot his other hand, would have been far too tentative. But for them, it was just what they needed. Their little lullaby of assurance.

Without further ado, Francis suckled on those jutting shoulders and enjoyed how Arthur tensed as one finger plunged up inside of him, curving to follow the inner tunnel of his body. He hissed, and gasped, hands splaying against the wall in front for a better grip. "_F-Fran...!_"

He expressed a harsh chuckle, loving how those muscles flexed and jerked, letting him straight in with ease. Arthur let out a strong gasp, weighted with noise.

"So good." The older nation cooed, drawling out soft pants as he imagined these muscles constricting and clenching around his cock. The going was easy, being as Arthur was still quite opened from last evening, and the Brit allowed Francis to impale the full length of his digit inside with relative ease. Still, he bit his lip to help himself deal with the brief and throbbing sting. The pretend lubricant did its job, but was nothing to the real deal. "You sound just as I thought, I hope you know. Tell me, you want this."

"Yeees..." Arthur moaned, rocking his hips back.

"Just as I have."

"Just as you have." He returned, bracing against the wall as Francis began to thrust his finger into the swallowing heat. The intrusion burned enough for him to clench his eyes tightly in discomfort, but there was something strangely intoxicating about the feeling of something being pushed in and out of you. Perhaps it was the perverse part of him spurring him on, but this was a feeling that Arthur loved. Sex felt so good, and it was not entirely for the relief that the prostate gives.

He could feel the shampoo froth at his entrance, manipulated into bubbles by the excessive motion of Francis's finger. It was unusual, and he squirmed, clenching tightly around the digit getting thrust into his body. The Briton doubted that the lubrication would be good, but he was rather stretched enough from what happened last night. Arthur hated that he could not remember. He hated even more that he did not have the sense to stop it. Whatever 'it' was.

A swift movement from behind made Arthur yelp and slam against the wall in front with the majority of his body weight. He turned his head and gazed at Francis with a questioning, but yet highly aroused look on his face. The lust was obvious by the look in his eyes, obscured by the layer of blond eyelashes. His gaze was met with a knowing smirk, and Francis circled that certain place deep within the other.

Now, he disliked being so rough, but he was slightly disappointed with the lack of noise. Arthur tried to move his hips back to have that finger ram his prostate again; to make stars flash before his eyes, and dizziness consume him like a drunken side-effect. Though Francis only moved away, gripping Arthur's hip with his spare hand to keep him steady, almost slipping the whole damned thing right out of him. His gaze transformed into a glare.

"Moan for me, _mon amour_." Francis purred softly, beginning to massage inside of the Englishman's entrance - stretching and testing the capability of the muscles. That, and to make the nation before him squirm - trying to readjust that finger back into the position to ram his prostate once more. The spare fingers still dangling out in the cold, wanting badly to be absorbed by that delicious sopping heat, were actively stroking up the cleft and making sure that Arthur was spread wide - wide enough for him to watch with high detail as their skin touched skin.

"I want to know that you have been the same for all these years through your voice. So _speak_ for me."

"Is my body not reacting enough for you to _know_?" The Englishman hastily snapped back.

Francis regarded him with a pointed look, pausing his actions entirely. His counterpart gave a disappointed whine, but fought for restraint against rocking back against that digit. Satisfied with the display, he deemed it fit to continue. "...I suppose. But you and I still want more."

"_Ahh!_" Without a warning to his partner, he rammed a second finger in; shampoo spewing out of Arthur as the skin forced its way inside. A particularly chorused moan elicited itself into the air, and the Frenchman soon realised that it came from the both of them in unison.

Slipping them in and out, in and out of the slimmer body, Francis ran his spare hand up and down the Englishman's side; feeling up all the skin available to him. He could not believe for a second that he had finally managed it - he had finally gotten into him, touching him, making love to the one person that conjured feelings too great for him to further ignore. He would be lying if he said that some hatred was not still alive between them, and he would be damned before he broadcasted the fact that he liked the Briton as a wild, untamed stallion of a man.

Needless to say, the display Francis received as he thrust those fingers of his into that one most desirable spot was enough for the Frenchman - experienced as he was - to groan gruffly. He rutted his crotch right up against Arthur's thigh, pressing right up to deliver himself some relief, and to hear Arthur sigh in want - _knowing_ what was about to come.

"_That is it_." The excitement he felt as each second went past, stroking and stretching his beloved to almost completion with a swift and thorough fingering alone, was getting absolutely unbearable. His incessantly heavy breath warmed the shell of the Briton's ear as he whispered to him, seduction oozing like honey from his lips. "Sing for us both, _mon amour_. I'm _dying_ with want for you."

"_Fuck_ your over-productive mouth, Francis, and _get on with it_!" Came the harsh and highly impatient reply, startling the both of them.

"Wouldn't you like that, _rosbif_?" He teased, letting the image float through his mind.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth so tightly that it hurt. "Oh you_horror_."

The comment earned a hefty laugh, and Francis soon enveloped the smaller body around the waist with his arm; circling Arthur close as bare skin brushed against sloppily wet and drying clothing. A flame was burning inside of him, and the man wondered how long it had been since he smiled this genuinely in a lover's presence. "See? This is what I want. This is exactly it. You bring both the love and the hatred straight out of me. How can I resist it now?"

"Don't _resist it_ and make it happen! ...Ahn... _Alfred_..."

The brief mention of the other made Francis withdraw away from Arthur a few inches; though his fingers were still firmly seated inside of him. Blanching with determination - and hope that Arthur was not going to suddenly break away in the memory of the other company they had inside of the house - he slotted in another finger and pressed right in till he was gently stroking and caressing the prostate deep within. He nurtured the spot, trying to hide the jealousy as he chuckled; "Stop saying his name now,_mon cher_."

Arthur shook his head, fingertips scratching and curling against the tiled walls as he was teased; back arching backwards a little more with each and every well-placed stroke. He tried to shake his head, though the feeling of his body being treated so well was driving all of the blood downwards and away from his sensibly thinking mind. "No, I can hear footst-_Mmmm_..."

"Forget about that and him!" By now, Francis was beginning to lose his patience. He thrust his digits up into Arthur far too roughly, making the man shout out loudly and pant.

"_Nngh_!"

A loud knock on the bathroom door knocked the breath straight out of the both of them. The Englishman immediately pushed his hips forwards to splay his naked body against the wall, trying to encourage Francis to release his fingers from inside of him wordlessly; although Francis was having none of it. He chased that amazing heat, following Arthur so that he was pinned between him and the tiles - chest shoved right up onto his back. Arthur made a distressed noise, attempting to look guiltily towards the door as another frantic knock came.

"Guys? Are you in there?" Alfred's voice sunk in from behind it. Francis and Arthur caught eye contact with another, and the Frenchman was horrified at how angered he was to see that his beloved genuinely wanted to break away and go to the third party of their affair. Francis narrowed his eyes in determination, not at all willing to lose. Not now when he had finally gotten him - not when they admitted to being in love and not when he was _so close_ to being where he had always wanted to be.

"Don't say a thing, Arthur. Don't let this stop." He mentioned, practically begging for the end not to come; warning Arthur with the look in his eyes that he did not want this to stop - that Alfred could go away, that it would just be Arthur and him; just the two of them. The conflicted gaze that was returned at him could have broken his heart then and there. Said heart of his begun to work on overdrive, constricting painfully in his chest. Arthur's, he could see, was rocketing up and down frantically in his chest - cheeks flushing with highly pressurised blood.

"Francis? Francis, was that you?" Alfred asked. Both of the two blonds trapped inside of the bathroom were alarmed to hear the panic setting into the American's voice. The doorknob rattled. "Come on-Open the darned door!"

Not willing to lose, especially not now, the Frenchman slotted in another finger to try coax Arthur back into the mood to take his manhood; desperately grappling onto hope to bring him back to the state that they were both in before the interruption came. He knew it was hopeless to try having sex with Arthur while Alfred was lingering outside of the doorway, but every ounce of him was begging him to at least _try._

He was so close. _So close_.

Francis continued his the thrusting movement with one hand, impaling Arthur with his highly lathered digits as the shampoo ran in white drips and bubbles down the other nation's legs, while his other was tugging that slender body close to his. His nose and lips buried themselves in the mop of soft, drying blond hair; lips offering comfort in soft, loving murmurs and frantic and excessive kisses.

"...Nn..." Arthur breathed, unable to stop his vocal chords from acting at their own accord. He shook his head again, eyes squeezed closed. It was obvious - by his stance and the way that he was beginning to tremble in the most subtle of ways, barely noticeable unless the eye was trained to spot nervousness - that within himself the man was panicking.

He had no idea what to do, how to react, and by _Dieu_ - Francis could not at all blame him. It was easy enough for him and Alfred to care about one, and one alone; but Arthur was not used to the fact that he was loved by the two people that he wanted the very most. How could they have expected him to know what to do when torn between them? They were treating him like an object to be passed around. Francis knew it would only be a matter of time before that fact blew up in his face.

"_Fuck_, was that Arthur? F-Francis! _What the hell are you doing to him_!" The distressed voice came from the other side once more, and Arthur was _gasping_. Francis quickly noticed that it was no longer from his fingers that were making him shudder and moan uncontrollably, but that the man was actually beginning to hyperventilate. So much conflict burst through Francis's mind, and he froze up himself - not knowing what he was to do.

"_Désolé_," Francis whispered, loaded with worry, holding the Briton loosely and kissing whatever part of the other he could find. The jerking of the doorknob besides them had gotten more and more ravaging by the moment, and the knocks were returning; getting louder and louder each time. "_Désolé, désolé, désolé_..."

The motion pressing into Arthur ceased, and Francis was just about to slip his fingers out when the whole place suddenly went into suffocating silence.

"That's it!"

A second or two was the only prelude, filling the air with strangling tension overcoming the pair of them. Then, suddenly, a huge cracking noise sounded from the doorway. With his deep blue eyes wide and shocked, he turned white as he caught the very moment where the door snapped straight off of the frame; spewing splinters and collapsing the large wooden object to the floor with a crash - along with a body following with it. Alfred hit the ground, after running and slamming against the door to ram the thing open. He groaned in pain, massaging his arm before his eyes were conclusively stolen away from the damage he had caused and towards the bathroom countertop.

Alfred stared at Arthur's naked figure, rammed right up onto the wall with Francis pressed against him - thighs dripping with makeshift lubricant, and three fingers obviously lodged inside of his body. The tell-tale sign of sweat was clinging to his shoulders, and the signs of arousal on both the Englishman and the Frenchman were too prominent not to notice.

He could feel his eyes prickling and throat tighten as he slowly slid up to his feet, not looking away. He did not know whether to cry, be sick, or do both. A cold shiver ran through, forcing goosebumps to appear on his skin. Alfred was absolutely stupefied - and neither Francis nor Arthur could blame him.

"...Yo-you're n-n-no-not..." Alfred tried to breathe out, though his voice was stammering almost too much for his words to be recognisable. "You're not... even restrain-Is-Is this a joke to you?"

Taking advantage of the fact that the American did not snap uncontrollably to force them apart by physical force, the oldest of the three blonds removed his fingers and slipped off of the bathroom side, trying to move away from those accusing eyes. They followed him regardless, switching confusedly between the two like a television on the blink.

Arthur turned around and curled up, hugging himself as he tried to recover from his earlier hyperventilating panic. The stressing had made his face red and flushed; although that certainly did not help his case. He opened his mouth to speak, though Francis realised quickly that the man was in no condition to do so at all. Mindful, Francis swiftly tried to give him a chance to recover his breath.

"Alfred, we-"

"-Is this why you ran away? Because I was not Francis, and this whole thing is a setup? To embarrass me and laugh about it later?" Alfred barged his words past the Frenchman's, completely disregarding now that the man even existed. The pain was far too blatant in the American's expression, and he was tearing up on the spot. He kept blinking, trying to stop himself losing composure from the shock.

"A-Alfred, this was not-" Arthur tried to offer, barely containing himself as well, before he was immediately interrupted;

"-Shut up for a minute! How on Earth did I fall for this? Of course this would be the way it would go! ...Well, _thanks a bunch_ for toying around with my feelings, but this sort of thing should _not be a fucking prank_!" Alfred shouted, restraining himself so hard to stop himself from sobbing. Francis could only stand back and watch as the American shuddered hysterically; but also as his love, _their love_, sat back on the bathroom side completely petrified with no idea what to do. He was stuck in a rut, and the magnitude of the situation was weighing straight on his shoulders.

If he left it like this, Francis realised, and Alfred left - he would never, _ever_ be forgiven. Arthur would also never ever be able to let this incident go. It was not fair at all. As much as Francis hated to take the blame, it was not entirely the Englishman's fault. It was _his_ for pushing it. _His_ for not stopping when he knew he should have. _His_for letting Arthur see someone that mattered to him, just as much as he did to him, break down right there in obvious distrust.

He could not let it end like this.

"...I love you, Arthur. I'm not going to take this all back!" The American called out, gripping his fists so tightly that his skin had almost gone beyond white; eyes closed. Alfred just did not want to see Francis's knowing face anymore, nor did he want to see the wounded expression on Arthur's face. All he wanted was answers. Were they doing this all along? All along, and he just did not see it?

"Alfred, I assure you that Arthur has had no part in this at all!" Francis shouted in defence, as Arthur shrunk back.

The bushy-eyebrowed nation was no longer absolutely still, but his movements were significantly slowed as his mind ran in circles; never-ending paradoxes and scenarios, in constant search for a way to fix all of this. Any way to have Alfred forgive him for accidentally giving in to half of his heart. Any way to stop Francis from being hurt that he wanted it to end in the first place.

Why. Why did they _both_ have to return what he felt? Why did it have to end up being _so damned complicated_?

Alfred walked straight up to his competitor, looking as if he was attempting to kill the Frenchman with just a well-placed glance. Said nation pulled back a step, honestly threatened by the air that the World's leading superpower was emitting. "So you admit that you've been using me from the start? God dammit, Francis! I thought you and I had a deal!"

"The deal was that you and I would both give each other a chance, and we would let Arthur succumb to whichever's will. Forgive me if I'm wrong, dear boy, but just who was holding onto him now?"

"...S-Screw you both!"

The room once again plunged into silence, atmosphere pregnant with nerve-wracking tension. Surprised, Francis and Alfred jointly turned their heads to regard the third and main decisive party of their current circumstance. Standing still there with yellow towel wrapped back around his anatomy and a hefty glare gracing his features was Arthur, brows knitted together. The two of them were stunned to see that they were knitted in _anger_.

"Eh?" One of the two said, intelligently, causing the Briton to go - finally - absolutely _ballistic_.

"Christ! Did either of you two _think_ to consider my feelings in this at all? Is this just some battle between the two of you to see if you can capture the 'damsel in distress'? ...You two have been playing me from the very beginning! Just how do you think I'm going to react? Well?" Arthur screeched at them, throwing accusing points and hand gestures at them. Both of the French and American nations inched backwards, frustrated faces turning into a more honest guilt.

"Listen, Arthur-"

"You know what, Alfred?" Arthur began, staying firm with a tone of voice that should _not_ be capable from a man that was visibly frenzied earlier with hopeless confusion. "_You_ shut up 'for a minute' - if you are even capable of doing so. Now, what do you take me for? A liar?"

"I don't, but..."

"What was this chat of yours I received earlier - _mm_? 'Do not' fucking 'stereotype me'! ...I am no liar, Jones. Neither am I a man that toys with someone's feelings for_fun_. How _dare_ you even suggest that! ...When I kissed you back, it was because I _do_ love you. Likewise to Francis. You know perfectly well that I did not let you touch me because I just want a cheap lay."

The two taller blonds were still and silent, words sinking in like a lead balloon. But despite their sudden compliance, Arthur saw the need to continue. The fury of the Englishman for the _sheer audacity_ of the men that be believed, honestly, that he loved was on a scale that could not be truly compared. Every part hit them like a bullet, and Arthur was trigger happy with the urge to relieve himself of the guilt he was harbouring on his shoulders and practically crippling him.

"Honestly, I have no clue why I am putting up with this. If you _dared_ to think you could mess around with me, _my feelings_, then-then-You two obviously are not the men I need in my life. I will not be some emotionless toy or a boy that warbles at every waking opportunity!"

"No, that wasn't what we were...!"

"_Mon cher_, neither of us expected it to...!" The two of them blurted out simultaneously in defence. But it was clear through Arthur's demeanour that the man was fed up, and _done_ talking.

"Fuck you." He said simply. Two sets of bright blue orbs widened at him, as their hearts set rock bottom. "_Fuck you both very much_. Now, if you do not mind - I will repeat my earlier sentiment. Get your rusty bollocks _out of my house_...!"

With that, Arthur swivelled around on the heel of his barefoot, and stalked off towards the broken door. He stared at it disapprovingly, before sailing straight past; out of the bathroom, leaving both of his potential lovers behind and disappearing completely from view, feeling like they had lost him forever. When you desire someone, and solely that one person, for hundreds of years, it was immensely difficult to let go. Even a few years were enough to derail the thickest of loving human relationships. A few months were enough to get over someone who did not matter, without a problem.

To have the dedication, devotion, to love someone for over fifty years was amazing. For several hundred and even almost one whole thousand years, it was a super-human skill that only nations would have even if humans were capable of immortality. To have a dedication like that, you would _not_ let it go easily. Not at all. Francis and Alfred understood that feeling far more than anyone else - and they would be damned, full on _damned_ before they left now.

Turned out, as the devious wolves soon realised, that they were - indeed - 'full on _damned_' as their target, their scandalous little rabbit, entered the pantry cupboard at the end of the corridor for new linens; to erase the residues of the now well-documented 'last night'. Especially with equipment hanging hereto and thereto, cameras and walkie-talkies strewn right there in complete disorder. Especially, too, when Arthur knocks Francis's laptop in shock - turning the thing back on in a hurry, and re-maximising one _particular_ high-definition window.

"_What the hell-!"_

Francis and Alfred gave one look to each other, going even more pale than before, as one singular word cropped up in both of their mind; "...fuck."

* * *

**Don't you just hate me?**

**Very, very tired, because I went out of my way to finish this update tonight. I'm two hours late for bed... *groan, moan, and other assorted noises*.**

**I don't know if you've noticed... but detailed fingering is a very, very big kink of mine. I really don't like it when authors skip over it in a sentence or two. So unrealistic... there is so much teasing you can do! *Squirms thinking about it*.**

**Anyway, yes, please do comment. I've said on the kink meme, and I'll say it here; the speed of my updates are governed, usually, by the motivation I am given to finish the story. I would have abandoned this months ago, had there not been a lovely reception. I've love to see what you guys think, so far :3. Honestly.**

**Much love to you all, and excuse me while I sleep till Monday, then proceed to panic about my exams. Ta-Ta~!**


	7. Chapter 7

**...So... yes. XD. Seven months or so without an update. Yes, I know.**

**I'm sorry, forgive me, my lovelies?**

**I'd be wrong if I said this chapter was a climax, but it **_**is**_** close to one. I think it's about time that I pull everything together to that it makes sense – for both Arthur, and you lot. From now on, we're working on making the ends meet.**

* * *

Of everything that Arthur had expected to be in his closet - from his fluffier bedclothes to silkier sheets for special occasions, otherwise known as whenever he felt like immersing himself in cashmere or silk or at least whenever he remembered to give a flying toss about what he was sleeping on, to his towels and cloths - what he saw before him certainly was not what he expected. In fact, as Arthur gaped at it, he wondered whether he should shut the door and re-open it; expectant to see that it had transfigured back into its normal self and that he had previously opened a hole to another universe. To Arthur that explanation would have made a lot more sense - and certainly would have given him a lot more peace.

In front of him was equipment and wires. The sort of equipment that the origin of television national broadcasting was far, far too used to seeing. Sucking in a breath that seemed to clog in his throat, Arthur stepped inside his walk-in closet and examined the pieces. There was a small camera, for one, that seemed to be a webcam on an extending lead - one that was a lot larger than needed for such a tiny room. Curious. The Briton scowled when he found three walkie-talkies, ones that looked like they had been borrowed from an army. When he turned them on, he noticed quickly that they had not a blip of white noise or interference. Definitely not the type of quality you would find in any typical £1 shop. Even curiouser.

However it was the laptop on the side that captured his attention, sitting carefully on top another set of his canary yellow towels. It had obviously been tampered with recently, since the Windows icon was floating around the screen as if it had only just gone idle. With the American and the Frenchman intruding upon his house, Arthur had no doubt it belonged to one of them. But why on Earth were these things in his house? In his _closet_, furthermore?

As soon as his fingertips lingered over the top of the touch pad, the closet door was flown open once again to the frenzied faces of the aforementioned; both of them wearing a look of shock and stress combined, almost crazed with franticness. Arthur only regarded them with a sideways glance, just about to touch the pad.

"Wait, no, Arthur—Don't!" Alfred shouted at him, before rushing up and grasping Arthur's wrist tightly in his hand; a crushing hold that blocked the Englishman's circulation and made him audibly yelp. Meanwhile Francis - still shirtless and dripping with moisture down his alluringly structured chest - grabbed his other, trying to yank him entirely away from the electronic device.

"And why ever should I not - Alfred?" Arthur snapped back, spice clearly defined in the midst of upset vocals. "This is my house, and I therefore declare that anything inside of it is either my property - or something that should be removed immediately! Like you bastards for instance! Didn't I tell you to _fuck_ the _Hell_ off?"

With that, Arthur forced himself forwards; the sudden action was not particularly strong but the two holding him back were not entirely suspecting of it, and their reaction times were poor. As soon as the hold was, albeit temporarily, released Arthur dragged his finger over the little touch pad to wake the laptop up; monitor bursting back into full life. Alfred and Francis would have grabbed Arthur again to force him away, but now it was no use. Besides... what Arthur saw made the Englishman pause solidly, mouth agape, appalled.

"...You... you have to be... joking."

Upon the screen was an image; it was moving, silently since the little mute symbol had a cross through it, and looked... scarily familiar. Yes, far too familiar. Arthur recognised his bedroom instantly – although it was not the setting that Arthur was paying attention to. He gazed at the laptop, watching as if through a portal into the past and onto the top of his wardrobe, where it obviously was situated. The position of it had a fantastic view of whatever was going on in the bed, and... just. Oh no. Arthur was speechless as he saw a figure contort on the bed, erotically ramming two objects – green and blue vibrators – inside of himself; kicking his head back and opening his mouth in clear moans as he strove towards climax.

He could recognise himself immediately, and Arthur was _not_ stupid. He knew what this meant.

Slowly, he turned around and stared wide-eyed at the American standing in front of him. Arthur allowed himself to briefly revel in the sheer fear and doubt in that boy's face; because frankly, he deserved it – every second of flustered embarrassment. Though Arthur was not going to give him much longer to come up with an excuse. He crossed his arms, temporarily forgetting that the laptop screen was still showing his naked self anally masturbating behind him. Francis received the same threatening treatment.

"You." Arthur stated, before seemingly deciding that he had said that with less venom than he really wanted to. He scowled deeper than before, and let his voice turn into something no less than vicious _poison_. "_You_."

"N-Now, Arthur—A-Aha—Look, we... uh..." Alfred fumbled with his words, glancing backwards over his shoulder – obviously seeking Francis's help. The Frenchman was equally stunned, although he realised quickly that Alfred was giving him a rather accusing look. After all, they had turned off the laptop last night before intruding upon Arthur in bed. Guess they just found out where Francis had been all this time.

"You know what? Never mind getting out of my house, just yet." Arthur scathed, and the two other nations stiffened. They might physically be more powerful, but to see Arthur act like a woman scorned was an occurence they knew was dangerous to mess with. This was more than petty anger that he gathers at meetings whenever Alfred spilt his coffee over his paperwork or Francis decides to flirt with the wrong ex-colonies. This was immense.

"...First, you tell me that you slept with me. You got me drunk and you fucked me." Arthur spat, taking a step forwards towards the two of them. Much as it hurt their pride to take a step back, they both did regardless. "Then you harass me, non-stop. _Then_, you accuse me of awful things; like messing with _your_—" A rudely sharp point at Alfred "—feelings and making a joke out of you. And then I find out that... fuck, it was all a lie – wasn't it?"

"Mon cher, we..." Francis started to speak, before Arthur shot daggers through his eyes at him and caused him to shut up.

"You made me think that you had used me, and then feigned ignorance. You made me think that I had given up something _important_ to you two, and you don't even get it! Let me spell something out to the both of you—I _loved_ you. And though I'm not a virgin, I don't just _play around_ with the people I have feelings for. Why do you think I've never approached you before? I don't have meaningless sex with people who _do _have meaning for me!" Arthur snapped.

He was sexually active, had been for years. But the people that he did have sex with honestly meant nothing to him. Nothing but a little relief for them both and some sexual gratification. One night stands were his thing, except the few times he managed to hold down a relationship. Although none of those entirely lasted long. Mainly because Arthur's opinions towards other people tended to flip-flop between enjoying their company and not. Much like with Francis and Alfred, only... he felt both positively and negatively towards them at the same time. He had a million regrets, and a million problems with them both; for Francis, it was like he hated him so much that he fell in love with him. For Alfred, he had resentment from when he left him – but the negative fear that he would disband from him again was overshadowed by his fondness for him. He could not stop himself loving them; and he would stop if he could.

He would never have sex with them out of a relationship, because of how destroying it was. He felt used, yes, and he felt like there could not become a deeper connection – romantic – between them if all they looked to each other for was just _sex_. Fucking hell, he wanted Alfred or Francis to have the _sense_ to take care of him rather than spin him like a web or a toy doll to manipulate in their hands. Even if they really did not sleep with him, did they have any idea just how _harmful_ the thought that exactly that had happened was? You do not toy with people like that.

"So, I find out that, hey! It's all fucking good! I never let them ram their fat cocks in me, because that would have been a real shame! Well whatever brains you were thinking with when you decided to _lie_ to me, it certainly was not the ones in your skulls!" Arthur growled, watching them frown as if wounded. They deserved it, he told himself. His heart was fluttering painfully at the thought of telling them off like this – but they _did_ deserve it. "But, no—Instead, they just watched me masturbate and decided 'ooh, yes, let's get a bit of this action – he's a total push-over!'"

"Arthur, that is _not_—" Alfred tried to cut in. His elongated brows had furrowed at this point, rather than allowing the vulnerable and shocked look to remain on his face any longer. Credit to him; he had more strength than Arthur thought; but the Englishman was having utterly none of it.

"No. You listen to _me_, sir." Arthur said, directing his glare primarily to the tallest of the three of them. Furious peridots met sapphires and clashed unsteadily. Alfred was the first to look away in defeat. "I let you kiss me, forcibly too, because I thought you and I had already kissed before. You stole that away from me. And _you_," the Briton faced Francis, having watched the Frenchman leer at Alfred while he received the blunt of the punishment. Prior to now, that is. "—I let you _finger-fuck me_!"

It went without saying. Francis and Alfred were smart enough to realise that Arthur thought he had already let them violate him, and therefore anything more was utterly meaningless – he might as well have surrendered himself and let them do whatever they wished, be it good or bad. Arthur never would have done such an insensitive thing had he not thought insensitivity had been mutual between them. They knew why he was hurt – and this was without taking into account the violation of his privacy as well.

"...Just... get out of my house, will you?" Arthur said in a tight-lipped whisper. His voice had turned into a total and utter contrast to before; no longer filled with angry intent, but now more... disappointment. "...Right now, please, just... just go."

Arthur did not stop to see if the two of them were thinking of leaving. He just could not take this all anymore. The Briton turned left, disappearing straight into his bedroom without much more of a word. The door slammed fiercely, and Alfred and Francis's hearts both thudded to the ground.

"...We should leave, Alfred." Francis said. He hated to admit, but his heart was racing – and it felt more strangely hollow then he had felt it be for a long time. It was the same sort of feeling he had gotten when Jeanne, bless her soul, had died. It was that familiar feeling of defeat, but far more personal to himself than his country; after all, it was about him as a person – not for millions of lives back on another shore.

"...N-No. We can't, Francis—I ain't going yet..." Alfred murmured sadly, staring forth at the closed door that Arthur had disappeared behind. He tentatively reached out, splaying his hand on the wood. Francis, beside him, swallowed slowly. He knew that Alfred was a lot more emotionally unstable than him, and he was less used to the feeling of defeat. The eyes behind those silver-rimmed spectacles were lit up with hurt, and could Francis ever blame him? He was still a teenager at mind.

"Non, Alfred—We should leave him right now. It's what he wants." Francis persisted, moving over to rest a sympathetic hand on the American's shoulder. Alfred's spread hand tightened into a neatly formed fist.

"I'm not going..." Alfred said, sort of weakly.

Ah, Francis knew that hurt tone he was using. It was the same tone that Alfred had used just after he left Arthur's clutches for good for his independence. He and the world never regretted it – he doubted that even _Arthur_ regretted it now, considering how strong Alfred had managed to grow on his own. Arthur was intelligent enough to realise his mistakes – maybe that was what Francis was putting faith in. If they left now, maybe in the future they could heal. After all, Alfred and Arthur had, since the day that that strong boy had left Arthur in the mud, sobbing as the rain and the world crashed in around him. Time was the best healer, not persistence.

"Alfred, we _need_ to go." Francis said again, trying to do everything to get the American to agree. He went silent when he heard some noises from within Arthur's bedroom, past the closed doors. Were those... sobs? Mon dieu. Really, what had they done?

"I'm _not_ going." Alfred repeated, much more firmly. It was this point where Francis _knew_ he should remove his hand from his shoulder. He cleared his throat and then nodded slowly, knowing that it was not just Arthur had needed some time to himself.

"...I understand." Francis conceded, patting Alfred's back in a last ditched effort to comfort him. Any other situation and Francis would have taken advantage to the fact that Alfred was vulnerable and upset, but he had far more sense than most people gave him credit for. Nothing could break the tension in the air but time. "Do not be too long. I'll wait for you downstairs."

* * *

_The world meeting had only just ended, and Alfred knew that there would be a gathering at the bar afterwards. It sort of sucked that he was one of the only nations that could not get a drink with everyone else, despite them all being in New York; his own country. It was times like this that infuriated him that he was not just that little bit older, physically. It was only two years worth, but he missed out on a lot. Though that was not the only thing that Alfred missed out on, because he was so physically young._

_Being a teenager still, as 'nineteen' proved, associated him with the ten years worth of adolescence beneath him. Even though nineteen, for most humans, was only a few months away from being twenty; that two digit number felt like a whole different decade. Maybe it was, being in the twenties, but it was not exactly like there was a real jump between one number to the next. Then he had to take into account people living with their ages in that other decade. Francis, Arthur... they were only a few years older, four in the latter case, but it felt like a huge jump. To them, he was still a kid._

_Honestly, that might be true. He was capable of making his own decisions now, but they were not necessarily the right ones. Others had so much more experience in that field. He was the one that matured so quickly; and maybe it was a little too fast. He was unused to his own mistakes. So being wrong about something important, as a young adult, hit him – the adolescent – harder than anyone._

_It had been a long time since he was quite genuinely afraid of something. Maybe terrorism and his people dying could be included in that – but wasn't that everyone's underlying fear? That the people he relates to and cares about get hurt? But that was another thing entirely. It had been a long time since he, him, Alfred – Alfred, the person, not America the country – had been afraid. _

_Nation aside, his personal decisions did tend to sometimes suck. Like when he accidentally picked up the nasty habit of smoking literally a few months before they discovered it was seriously harmful. Or the time someone convinced him to try some LSD in the seventies and proceeded to watch light pornography appear in front of his eyes on the refrigerator door, and then ended up having a seizure and hitting his head off a sink. Pretty stupid stuff – and those were silly indulgences._

_Coupled with decisions he needed to make that actually were important to him, Alfred, it was hard for him to know for sure if he got it right. So he sought guidance. Maybe it came in the form of chatting to his brother, or having a fully blown conversation with Kiku or Arthur. But right now... there was only one man to visit; the one best at figuring out love._

_Little did Alfred realise, when he grabbed Francis's arm and tugged him out of the swarming mass of nations departing the meeting hall, that Francis had been expecting him. Nor did he realise that the Frenchman had been planning for years._

_Fuck. Francis knew everything._

* * *

Once Francis was gone, having disappeared down the stairs and to an indistinguishable part of Arthur's house, Alfred sighed shakily and leant forwards; pressing his forehead against the cold wood of the Briton's door. He laughed slightly, realising just how pathetically he was acting. He sniffed, feeling an odd but familiar prickling in his eyes. '_Oh man...'_ Alfred thought to himself, exhaling a laugh. '_I haven't wanted to cry like this since _forever_...!_'

He knew that this was his fault. He was the one that suggested to Francis that they could go intrude on Arthur and give him a surprise when he awoke – but when he did, Arthur's reaction was just so strong that Alfred could not fight it and continued with the lie. He had a reason for it; for lying and persisting with that lie. Although Alfred doubted that Arthur would believe him. It stung, internally, knowing that the only reason they had screwed up so much was because of _him_. He ruined everything. He was like a bull in a china shop – crashing into everything on his way to escape. Certainly didn't help now.

Alfred had no clue how to fix this, or indeed if it could be fixed at all – because Arthur; _shit_, he had seen Arthur pissed like that before, but never quite at _him_. Even when they used to argue in the revolutionary days, Arthur was never like this - never quite this strong. It was not that he was scared, far from it, but Alfred could tell that he had been far too hurtful to be forgiven. Fuck. He smiled; not out of joy, obviously, but out of worry and nerves. The opposite reaction to how he should. It was like he was trying to laugh his worries off. He had always done this; been too cheery when everything was going to the dogs. Who exactly was he trying to lie to?

"...Wow, Jones. Seriously, pull yourself together..." Alfred muttered. It was time to tell the truth. "...No more excuses."

The American bit the bullet and knocked on the door. There was a long silence, and even the slight shuffling noises inside of the room had ceased entirely. Alfred took himself off of the wooden panel and stepped back, so if the door swung open he would not embarrass himself; but that never came. Even when he knocked again, gaining some confidence from his newly formed determination, there was no answer. "Arthur?"

Still no answer. "...Um. It's just me, Francis is somewhere else. Look, I, uh. Dammit, listen to me sound like a—what do you usually say? A pillock or a git or a moron or sommat?" Alfred tittered awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. Yeah, his nervous habits were beginning to show through again.

_Still_ no answer. "I want to talk to you." A long period of silence. "...Arthur, I want to tell you why I did what I did and why I lied to you – okay? You don't have to believe me. You don't have to suddenly make up with me, even though I really, _really _don't want to leave it like this. I just want you to listen to me, face to face, 'aight? ...If you want me to leave right after, I'll do it."

The shuffling behind the door re-continued, but it sounded like it was getting closer – right before it stopped. Alfred swallowed slowly, realising that Arthur had ceased before opening the door, having temporary second thoughts. Alfred knew he was literally words away. "_Please_, Arthur. I want to tell you that I'm sorry. At the very least, let me do that."

The door was slowly slid open, and a shaken up Briton stood behind it; his face was wet, and Alfred was appalled that it was himself that did it. He knew Arthur was a sensitive and emotive type of person – why else would he get so infuriated a lot of the time – but seeing the evidence right in front of him did not help. Alfred wanted to move forwards and simply swamp Arthur in his arms, to murmur to him how sorry he was and how he wanted to fix it all; but the situation was not kind enough for that. He merely let an empathetic smile appear on that chiselled jaw of his. "Ca—_May_ I come in...?"

"...Knock yourself out." Arthur mumbled, extending the door further to invite the American in. Inside, the room was a bit less of a mess than it had been before. Those faithful gold silk sheets that Arthur had ruined by cumming on them the night before had been stripped off of his duvet and abandoned beside the bed. The sex toys that had been spilled that morning had been tossed back into the box Arthur had specially attributed for it, though not stashed back into his closet yet. Otherwise, it was the same place; musky and hot still with the scent of Arthur's orgasm last night and three bodies from all of them sleeping in that room together.

The Briton left Alfred to his own devices, turning and moving over to sit on the bed. Alfred had expected him to cross his legs and arms and pull a sceptical face that made it seem like Arthur thought nothing but doubt towards what Alfred was going to say to him, but he did not do that. He sat and stared down at the floor, frown too present on his face. Alfred wanted nothing more than to wipe it off. Instead of coming to sit on the bed besides Arthur, the American walked over and descended onto the floor – exactly at the spot the Englishman had been staring at. As he knelt, Arthur looked up, taken aback.

"There's a few things I want to tell you." Alfred began. "Number one... I don't want you to blame Francis. I was the one that decided to come in here and sleep next to you, and tell you that we slept together. It was _stupid_, I know. I thought that... okay. Um. Fact is... I was doubting myself. I heard you say that you loved me last night when you were using the vibrators and everything and I... I wanted to know if that really was true. And what did you think I was going to do, Arthur? Waltz in during the morning and tell you that I was really happy you said my name last night while we were watching you on a _webcam_?"

The Briton looked like he wanted to interject, but Alfred raised a hand to silence him. Normally Arthur would have ignored it and continued regardless, but the other blond appeared staggeringly determined right now. "Just wait a few secs, okay? Just a few," Alfred urged, until it looked like Arthur would not want to interrupt again.

"...'Kay. So, yeah. I know that I could probably have waited a while and confessed to you in a few days from now – but... Francis... he's better and more romantic than me, Arthur. He would have gotten to you quicker than I would have. Because, I gotta face it – I would have been running around in circles in nerves and might have chickened out, last minute, if I did not act boldly now. Then Francis would have run away with you, and I would be hanging out to dry. And, yeah. I'm selfish, Arthur. I know it. But I could _not_ have been able to watch the two of you be happy together while I was kicking myself, lying in the dust." Alfred explained.

All through, he was getting mental images of Arthur and Francis together, acting so happily. Maybe it was hard to believe that they would be acting like everything was sunshine and daisies when they were together, because conflict was a part of _them_ as a pair as much as it was with him and Arthur; but that was how he imagined it all the same. It made him feel jealous whenever he imagined Francis hugging Arthur, holding him in the middle of a French field or maybe even marrying him. Who knew what was possible in the future. Cute as it might be, and happy as _Arthur_ might be... he was not sure if he could actually contend with that.

"...Arthur, I know that I should have been smarter. I shouldn't have let you run with the lie, and I _know_ it was so, so wrong. I'm a big kid now, y'know? I can vouch for my mistakes. Bet you didn't think I could do that, now, didja?" Alfred teased, laughing a bit to encourage himself at his failure of a joke, and to help warm the atmosphere around him as well. "I know that I screwed up. And though it is my fault, I'm certainly not stupid enough to run with the concept so much to actually let you let _me_ touch you. Unlike a certain guy I know."

The jab towards Francis was relatively unwelcome, but it was true. Fine, he stole kisses; though their first kiss was romantic enough for him. He had no idea how Francis had managed to get inside Arthur, but he guessed he should not have been surprised at the Frenchman's supreme ability to get in another person's pants. The fact that it was _Arthur's_ made Alfred that bit more unstable towards his emotions. He did not blame himself for snapping once he discovered them together. Even now, thinking about it made him give a slight guttural growl.

"...So, uh. To conclude..." Alfred continued, reaching out and snatching Arthur's hand up, taking it out of its crossed-arm position. If he did not do it right then, upon instinct, then he might not have had the confidence to do it at all. From the beginning of his existence, Alfred had always been a very instinctive person; he acted upon impulse before he could take account of the regrets. He sought out Arthur's reaction.

"Alfred—" Arthur started to speak, and Alfred _looked_ up at him. The Briton's mouth casually opened and closed a few times, before the more snappish of the two realised he had nothing quite to say. Perhaps he did not entirely understand Alfred's motive, but he had already told him off for what he had done. He was annoyed, yes, but the American's long-winded apology was helping.

"Just listen to me, darlin'." Alfred asked gently, rubbing his thumb across the top of Arthur's hand. Seeing the Englishman gaze down at the action, Alfred squeezed those delicate fingers lighter still. "Yeah, I did badly. I lied to you, I admit it. And I did it for a real, _real_ _stupid_ reason. And I was an idiot and kissed you before you really knew how much it meant to me. So... aha. Arthur?"

"...Al?" Arthur said, quietly. The American could see Arthur's heart racing quickly; his exposed chest jittering up and down so fast. His own heart was acting the same.

"...I want to start over. Okay? Arthur, we've never had sex. And for the purposes of this... I've never ever kissed you either, alright? Just pretend—you're imaginative enough for that. I know you are." Alfred reached upwards, cupping Arthur's cheek into his hand. He gave a goofy laugh, his glasses going a little bit askew, pleased that Arthur did not smack him away like he had expected. Yeah, he could do this.

"Arthur Kirkland, here's my confession. I, Alfred F. Jones, am wholeheartedly and foolishly in love with you. And I am going to do everything I can to steal your heart so that it's all mine. Cause I'm selfish, and I'm no better than a child, and because I love you more than anythin'." He said this in a light-hearted chirrup; he had never been good at speaking his feelings seriously. It was another of Alfred's obvious nervous ticks. The American then gauged Arthur's reaction, and saw that he was not running away. Yes. That was good.

Carefully, Alfred reached in and captured Arthur's lips; kissing him ever so gently. This time he did not chase after Arthur's tongue or go too hard – keeping it romantic and simple. A second or two in, he felt extra pressure placed on his lips, and Alfred knew Arthur was starting to kiss back. He stroked the Brit's cheek, before his hand fled backwards and cupped the back of his head. The bespectacled blond deepened the kiss until he started getting urges for more – that was his cue to get back, before he lost track of what he was doing. He huffed for breath once they had parted, fingers still tangled in Arthur's hair and hand on his hand.

"...I know I'm not Francis. I'm not too sensible; I'm a klutz when it comes to things like dates and such. And, okay, I admit I like teasing you till you crack. And I know you _might _be thinking '_Oh! He's just a child—that boy has no idea what he is feeling_!'" Alfred added, creating his own very bad cockney accent that sounded more Australian than English – he could not quite get the right feel to his 'ah's. "'Cause, sorry. That's bullshit. You don't live for a few hundred years without picking up some sense every now and then. I know for a fact that _this_, this little inkling feeling, is all 'cause o' you. And I'm sorry that I'm an idiot. Forgive me?"

Arthur stared at Alfred in a stupor, looking as if he was conflicted by so many options. It was like the one he really wanted was being dandled in his face, but he was being held back by invisible bonds. The nation swallowed bitterly, trying to come up with some sort of decision, and fast. "...You... _bastard_," Arthur gritted out with difficulty, and Alfred started to let go of his hand. Both of them now looked wounded. Green eyes hardened. "You think I could forgive you so easily? Alfred, you and Francis clearly toyed with me and my feelings. Shouldn't you be more sensitive than that? You are an intelligent man, Alfred. A bit of a moron at times, but intelligent."

"You know what?" Alfred said, cracking another smile and withdrawing his hand away totally. He stood up from his knees and sat next to Arthur on the bed, though this time he was not facing him. Blue eyes glanced upwards to the skies – as if looking straight through the ceiling and roof of Arthur's house and seeing past into the warm azure clouds. Arthur would not put it past Alfred to be that much of a dreamer. "Yeah. I really am a moron. A total doofus. But hell, you always appreciated honesty."

"...Aye," Arthur said, furrowing his eyebrows and glancing upwards towards the same section of sky that Alfred seemed to be looking past at. "That but I do."

"And I know you don't forgive easily. It was stupid of me to think you would, huh?" Alfred chuckled, before adjusting his glasses. He slipped them off, rubbing away some pesky dust from the shaped lenses with the sheets of the bed. "Bet you've never really forgiven me for my revolution either, have you?"

"...No, no, I haven't." Arthur replied simply.

"But you still loved me, right?" The American said, placing his glasses back over his bright, shining blue eyes. Eyes that are shining even more alight now than ever.

"...Yes. Yes, I did."

"And you love me right now, too, don't you?" Alfred asked of the Briton, watching him now expectantly.

"...Yes. I do." Arthur added, looking over.

"But you love Francis too, don't cha?" The plucky American asked, shifting over so he was sitting up on the bed with his legs crossed childishly. His dopey smile only increased, and he could detect the warmth now radiating from Arthur. Those reddish cheeks of his only turned more reddish. "...Yeah, I thought so."

Arthur peered over, quirking an eyebrow at Alfred. It was like a challenge, '_what are you going to do about it?_' – Of course, who was he to back down from a challenge?

"So, I a'reckon that if I got Francis back in here, you'd say the same things to him, huh? He violated you and your privacy, so on, so forth." Alfred queried, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. The Briton's brows tightened, forehead wrinkling slightly as he gazed at his spectacled equivalent. "Yeah, you would. And he'd probably say the exact same things back. Love ya, Arthur - I'm a dick, forgive me – so on?"

"Alfred, what are you trying to lead up to?" Arthur exclaimed, before he flinched. Alfred had suddenly grasped his hand again, tugging it up towards him. He placed Arthur's hand against his heart, letting the man feel his heartbeat. Surely enough, there was the light throbbing and evidence of life underneath Arthur's hand. "Alright, _now_ I am curious."

"I'm gonna say this clearly, Arthur. At some point, you are going to have to make a decision between the two of us – Francis and I. Because, Hell, the decision is _not_ going to be made up _for_ you," Alfred said, and knew Arthur was blinking up at him in confusion because he did not expect him to be making so much sense. "Until then, I don't mind sharin' your affections – y'know, just in case... Heaven forbid an' all... it's _not_ me that you choose. But I won't wait around forever. And I don't much like the idea of us being a three-way. Sorry. Understand?"

Arthur bit his lip and slowly nodded, and Alfred squeezed his hand lightly while it rested over his heart – of which was now beginning to oscillate at a faster pace. It did not take Arthur long to realise that both of their hands were shuddering slightly – some sort of... nerves?

"So, here's the facts: I'm a lot younger than you – almost to the point of it being _ridiculous_ if I'd never hold the same feelings that you might hold for me. But I do, and you can feel it right now, can't cha? Underneath your fingers?" Alfred waited for Arthur's eyes to flick down at his chest. Surely enough, Arthur did exactly that. "I'm also a bit of a dick, yeah, I know. Am I going to get all of your jokes? No. Will I enjoy everything you do? No. Will I take you treating me however you want me to...? _Hell_, no. I'll do what I want and I'll do what I need. Even if I need a lil' help. I mean, why else would I have asked Francis to help me with you? _But..._"

Alfred cleared his throat, and winked theatrically at Arthur – seeming kind of amused when the Englishman looked a bit taken aback. "...Maybe when it comes to my emotions, I ain't – sorry, _am not_ – the most sophisticated person ever. Which is why you should _know_ that what I've got for you is real; because I can be raw, and I can be simple – I get angry when there are things to be angry about, and I get upset when there's something to be upset for. I also get annoyed when you or other people try to hold me back, but hey—That's only because I _know_ I can do more. And it's that which tells me, without hesitation, that I am in love with you. Eat your heart out, Brit."

"...Alfred?" Arthur interrupted, and Alfred raised a long eyebrow.

"Yeah, space cadet?"

"Shut the fuck up, will you?" He demanded, and Alfred was honestly surprised at the outburst. Arthur snatched back his hand, frowning deeply. "I _know_, Alfred. Of your and Francis's feelings, I _know_ yours are the most believable. And I _know_ that of the two of you... you'd take rejection hardest. Because you're the golden boy—The boy that got handed the world on a silver plate, and hates not getting his way. And don't puff your cheeks up like that, Alfred, it's unsightly."

Alfred released air through his lips and deflated his shoulders. Arthur scoffed at the action – could he be acting any more like a child? Though that was the boyish charm that Alfred gave. He still looked handsome, even when he was playing up like a complete berk.

"I'm aware that you love me. And I'm aware that I, against the odds, love you too. _But_, and it's a very big 'but'—" The Englishman said, reaching over and stroking a few locks out of Alfred's face, to better expose his young and handsome features. "—I also love Francis. And I... I just _don't know_..."

As Alfred saw Arthur sigh in defeat, terribly conflicted between the two of them, he chuckled.

"Then the course of action is simple, ain't it?" Alfred stated. He moved so that the smaller man was positioned in front of him, and he grasped at Arthur's hips – tugging his body towards him. Revelling in the noises Arthur made, Alfred waggled his eyebrows teasingly. He laughed louder when Arthur abashedly looked away and blushed. "Can't have you making the wrong decision, so, you've gotta experience us _both_, right? And watching you _last night_ – you're real open to that, aren't cha?"

Arthur pulled a scandalised expression, but Alfred interrupted him before he could get in a snappy comeback.

"_Nope_, no denying it cutie—" Alfred played. It felt like he was painting as Arthur's cheeks burned a more intensely raspberry colouring. "—Stay with us _now_, and we'll leave you be to get on. Who knows? Maybe you and I could go on a date or something, and you and Francis could do the same, and you could figure out exactly who you'd rather be with. It's up to you. You up for it?"

Arthur gave a long mumble and started to rub at his cheeks, trying to get the heat to disappear from them. Not that that would happen, while Alfred was hugging his body around the waist now. "...I don't know..."

The mumbling was replied to by a soft kiss at his neck, followed by another. The taller blond had begun to nurture him by nipping at his jugular and Adam's apple, trying to make him feel at ease. "Come on, darlin'..."

"...Oh, for goodness sake!" Arthur groaned aloud, wiggling out of Alfred grip and throwing his arms in the air, disbelievingly. Hearing Alfred snigger adolescently at the grumpy way in which he said it made him roll his eyes. "_Fine_ – we're never going to solve this if we don't. And I have a feeling you two won't leave me alone till you get some of what you want."

Alfred fist-pumped the air, which made Arthur sigh even more. "_Don't_ make me regret this. ...Go get Francis, will you?"

"Never, Cap'n! And sir, _yes, sir!_" Alfred said loudly, giving a mocking salute to the Briton. He quickly got to his feet and stamped his foot, pulling the whole military facade. They had had plenty of practice of _that_ throughout the years. He started to march out while Arthur collapsed his head in his hands. He was at the door before Arthur made a noise that forced Alfred to stop.

"One more thing, Alfred..." Arthur added in a slightly suspicious, devious voice. "...I'm just curious..."

"Hm?"

"When you and Francis were... _watching me_, last night..." Arthur coughed, still embarrassed about the fact that they had spied on him doing such dirty things to himself. Giving himself anal and using vibrators was embarrassing enough, but _double penetration_ was a very... _particular_ kink. One that he supposed Alfred and Francis shared, considering it was their voices through microphones that gave him the push towards doing it. "It would be reasonable to assume that you two... well. Should I put this euphemistically? You both _needed seeing to_?"

Alfred choked, leaning up now against the door frame. It was his turn to blush. "A-a-aha... uh. Yeaaah... about that. So, maybe I was... um. Maybe I _lied a bit_, when I say that Francis and I don't... er. _Co-operate_, sometimes..." He cleared his throat several times into his fist, making a point in not looking over – knowing he would see a smug face. He held his hands up defensively. "It was only hand-jobs, I swear! We never did anything more—I mean, it's big making someone else cum and everything, but that was it...!"

"..._Alfred_..." Arthur said carefully, and Alfred tentatively looked at him. Yes, there definitely was a knowing, smug face. "...You were in my pantry. I was only going to ask if you got any mess on my linens."

"O-oh." Alfred deadpanned. So – he just realised that he admitted to giving Francis a hand-job and receiving one himself, for utterly nothing. He coughed again, scratching the side of his cheek as it quickly turned hotter. "Yeah, um. I'm, er, I'm going to go get him... Aha..."

As Alfred disappeared into the house to fetch the French blond, wherever he may be, Arthur flopped backwards and laid on the bed; covering his face up in his hands as he tried to get his head around this. He wished that he could split himself into two. Two that could love each of them – because Alfred was right; there was no point leading either of them on only to turn them down at the last hurdle. "..._You idiots,_" Arthur murmured sadly to himself, curling up on the bed. "_As if I could choose between you..._"

* * *

**The next chapter will be M-rated. Guaranteed.**

**Love, Zoe. X**

**...Also, I tend to make up a lot of words. Or use words in places that words should not really exist in. I'm not sure who said it, but I remember watching an Author on television say that for writing, making up words that go with the feel of what you are writing is perfectly fine. Good, really. So, maybe 'nurturingly' might not be a word **_**('he stroked his cheek nurturingly' – to act nurturing)**_**. But it should be. And 'intentive' should be one too **_**('An intentive smile appeared on his face' – full of intent)**_**. So for me, it is. Eat your heart out.**


	8. Chapter 8

**...And two Devious Wolves**

* * *

It was a hard feeling to explain – 'love'. Whoever thinks that love is not painful clearly does not understand it – or maybe the course of their lives found the most favourable outcome naturally. As perfect as love could be, it almost never was. There would always be some sort of complication, like feelings being unrequited or perhaps there was already someone in the way. Those who did not have that sort of problem were the lucky ones.

Arthur was not lucky. Truth be told, he had felt what he would describe as 'love' quite a few times in his love life (it was almost impossible to not encounter it at least once within just over a thousand years). Naturally, every single time came across a complication.

There was one man that he met and fell for in the early 1300s – a knight. Of course, he had a wife and children. But Arthur couldn't stop himself blushing at the pride that knight exhibited for his kingdom and his country. Unrequited, unspoken feelings – he would not dare tell a human that he was physically attracted to him. Not to mention, a male. As a religious nation at the time, Arthur found himself in church many a time, trying to pray and repent for his longing. The knight died all too soon.

Then he remembered falling for a nation, one of his own kind, for the first time in the middle of that century. Portugal was handsome and lean, and he awakened something primeval within him. Unlike with the Knight, he found attraction in him in return. Somehow, it seemed less of a taboo for the immortals to flourish with the immortals – regardless of gender, they were at least the same 'species'. They shared their relationship in secret still, being in the bodies of men, and made love in Lisbon on the Portuguese nation's own bed – Arthur's first time. Though slowly, their feelings for one another began to fade. What had been a romantic overture, a sudden heat making Arthur's life bubble and boil over with excitement and feelings, eventually dimmed. Their candle burnt out with the Iberian Union of 1580. They were still friends, but their alliance would never be the same.

From then on, Arthur descended into something new. His teenage years, late adolescence, were spent with more excitement, but this time mingled with violence. Finally he took to the seas, and found himself discovering the finer points of life – in the most childish of ways. Upon reflection, he would say that he was such an idiot. He would kill, he would drink to his success, he would pillage for his own gain. The alcohol, the thrill, the _sex_. It was all a whirlwind of events. He was a hooligan of the seas – cutting anyone down who opposed him and ravishing those who wanted him with sex and nothing else. There was no romance in his kisses, only mockery or blasphemy against religion or anything that got in his way. To commit sodomy, and to be sodomised, and drink until he could not remember anything else. Nations or humans, it did not matter, as long as they thrust deep and were rough and exhilarating.

It could not last. The flurry of sex, thievery and alcohol all ended as the Europeans begun to explore further than Europe and Asia and Africa. The new world welcomed him, and Arthur became transfixed. He loved adventure just as much as he loved wealth and sex and success – and the new world promised all of the above. Yet when he arrived there – probably sober for the longest time since he had become ruler of the seven seas – he fell in love with the environment, and the prospects.

Then there was that little boy. Arthur could not explain what it was about him, but Alfred pacified him. He was pure, innocent, and even after Alfred had chosen him over the others, Arthur knew that he had to hold onto his affections. He had to make his boy trust him. Arthur's bad habits ceased, and he turned a new page in his life. He became a fraternal figure – one that had responsibility, and could stop Alfred doing so many mistakes that he himself had made. He had been foolish, thrown himself about carelessly, and damned the Heavens. Alfred was precious. Special. He could not let the boy fall into the same rebellious nature that he had adopted. He'd give the boy the silver spoon in his mouth that he never had, and the home-cooked meals that he would have wished for. In actual fact, that was one of his downfalls – Arthur spoilt that child. Gave him everything he needed, but oppressed his growth in the aims of 'protection', and not to mention, his own gain.

When Alfred rebelled against him with that fucking Frenchman, Arthur thought he had failed to pass on the message. He tried to make Alfred's life protected and perfect, though to shape him to the lessons he had learnt from his own mistakes, instead of letting Alfred discover those lessons on his own. As soon as he let go, Arthur realised that he had been so wrong all along. He had held onto Alfred, shielding him from the rest of the world, when in actual fact Alfred was capable and resourceful enough to manage on his own. Alfred had, within years, what had taken centuries for Arthur to develop. He was a raw talent, strong and with justice prevailing in his mind.

Arthur had been so selfish. He thought he could control something that was not meant to be controlled – something that was able and born to become far greater than he ever was. As he watched Alfred grow, flourishing into a great being that Arthur never would have dreamt of letting him become, Arthur knew that he should never have tried to capture, suppress, and harness it.

It broke his heart to see the boy he had raised go and forsake him. But if he hadn't, and if Alfred had not reminded him that they had never been 'brothers' to begin with, he never would have seen the phenomenon that the golden boy was meant to be – young, but just as developed as the rest of Europe. Hundreds of years beyond what he should have been.

If Alfred had not left, Arthur wouldn't have fallen in love with him. Suddenly he was mature, suddenly he was intelligent, and suddenly he was attractive like Arthur had never even known. He never once took the time to appreciate him – he was always so, so busy – until he was gone. You always find yourself loving what you can't have.

He was not the only one. Francis had always been there, throughout Arthur's life. He had always felt an attachment towards him – as a fraternal figure while his true brothers barely cared about whether he could chew or talk until he was invading their lands – and that wavered through the early few centuries of Arthur's life. He hated being dominated by French leaders or forced to read the French language, and perhaps that should have been more of an indication of Alfred's eventual revolution than anything else. He would hate to admit, but he had been too dim to notice the correlation.

He hated Francis, and then he loved Francis. Theirs was a relationship that was ever so confusing. They would fight constantly; rip at one another's hair, kicking and biting, or making snarky comments about one another's fashion sense. Though there is no denying that there is a spark between them – something that makes them constantly invested in one another's thoughts and opinions, and wants and desires. Even if it is to undermine them. To put it simply, Francis and Arthur – through their lives together – always maintained an… _interest_ in one another. The tension that ran between them buzzed with energy and it never ceased throughout however many years they knew each other. Never once did their interest in one another fade.

It was natural that Arthur would have realised that eventually, he wanted to kiss Francis instead of punch him. The realisation opened the Pandora 's Box of his life. Such strong feelings, and he had never known.

Of course, now Arthur was faced with a conundrum. Love was never easy.

The problem of loving two people at the same time is, in fact, staggeringly common. Arthur's feelings varied for the two men that had stolen his heart (in a manner of speaking, we all are aware of chemical reactions inside of us being the cause for attraction and this thing we label as love), but they were nonetheless just as strong.

They captivated him in similar, but equally dissimilar ways. Alfred was handsome – a raw talent, resourceful and filled with genius, but with his own drawbacks and childishness which Arthur, honestly, found charming just as much as goofy and stupid. Love with Alfred would be an adventure in its own way, and he would never let a dull moment come across them. He would whisk him away, but they could also take care of one another – he could imagine Alfred and him cuddling in bed, with that boy wearing that stupid expression on his face that made his heart race. He'd be less refined, and he could imagine them fighting so many times, but that was part of it. Besides—honestly, who could turn down a good, constructive, heated discussion as long as they knew that whether happened, they would love each other at the end of it?

Francis on the other hand was a typical, traditional romantic. He enjoyed the simple life. A more refined, perfected life. Their conversations would be more geared towards discussion of the arts, literature, long lost prose and customs. Francis was effectively a representation of a life that they had left behind – to hold onto tradition and decency. While Alfred thrived in the modern age, it was true that both Arthur and Francis shared a love for the past. Truthfully, they were has-beens. Previous empires that had lost the supremacy and the top of the hierarchy that had previously been dear to them. Alfred would not be able to understand that feeling – knowing that what made you grand was lost. Francis could empathise. In general, Francis was a lot more empathetic – perhaps not always agreeable, but he would understand nonetheless. It saved a lot of bother.

He could imagine how life with Alfred and Francis individually would be. With Alfred, they would wind down after work with a cuddle and they'd watch TV. They would have dates in famous restaurants that had some sort of gimmick, or they'd visit magnificent places. Alfred would let him have time to himself when he needed it, but he would always want to be in the spotlight – he'd want _his_ eyes on _him_. He was selfish but endearing like that. It was true that, young as he was, Alfred knew exactly what he wanted and knew how to get it.

With Francis, Arthur could imagine winding down with a good book and some classical music. They'd go about their quiet lives individually, but together. It would not be too loud, it would not be too thrilling – and truth be told, that was more alluring to Arthur than not. He liked the idea of the peace, the tranquillity, and the discussion that Francis offered. He was like fine art in his private life when he was not letting his romantic side come to the forefront – something that was pristine, but needed a particular type of person to appreciate. Francis wouldn't do many dates visiting particular places, but he would make a romantic effort. Surprise picnics in the park, boat trips along rivers, operas – Arthur liked that.

They were so different, but they brought two very different things to the table. From the modern age, demonstrating never a dull moment and promises of much laughter – yes, even from _his_ mouth – to the love for the past, the pleasant, the simple but also intricate, with passion and peace being the delicacy of their lives. They both flirted with totally different sides of his personality.

Just… _which could he live without?_

It was horrible to know that he could have either, but if the wrong one is chosen, that is the end of it. He had to know, but not regret his decision. But at the same time, none of them would wait forever. It was a status that could become his downfall. But who?

_How was he supposed to know?!_

* * *

All these thoughts managed to run through Arthur's head – albeit subconsciously – as he sat in his bedroom waiting for Alfred to return. He tried not to think of the implications of what they were about to do, but it was hard not to. How many people in this world are lucky enough to have the ability to have both the people they fell in love with? In reality the choice was stressing Arthur out more than giving him supremacy and joy. He was 'in control', but he was pressured to make the right decision.

_He was going to break someone's heart, and he hated it._

It wasn't that neither was good enough. It wasn't that he did not want one. It wasn't that what he felt for one necessarily transcended the other. Having never actually dated either of these men, he had no idea what was actually _right_ for him. He had no idea what would make him happiest, or who he – if their bosses allowed it – may marry one day. In reality neither could be right, and it could be heartbreak for all three of them.

_He just did not know_.

Arthur cupped his mouth and stared at the floor as he ran through the scenarios in his head – from him telling Francis that it was him and seeing Alfred get kicked down like the saddest little puppy, to Alfred being the one he chose but ending up regretting letting Francis go.

Alfred had made it perfectly clear. Neither him nor Francis would wait forever, and neither wanted a poly-amorous relationship. Arthur didn't either – it would be too unfair on them. Alfred didn't like Francis in that way and vice versa, so in that case it would be selfish for Arthur to expect them to fall at his feet. He just wished he could decide now. He just wished he _knew_. If only the balance tipped from one to the other and actually _stayed_ there. But he supposed, that was the point of _this_.

He would get a taste of them now. He would see them competing for his affections first-hand. Then they'd take him on a date or two individually. Whoever was _right_ would win this silly, Godforsaken competition. Because that was what it was. It was a petty fight for what they wanted. Arthur groaned and smothered his head in his hands. He was like an object, a piece of meat, but could choose the owner of himself. What sort of sick game was this? Who in the right mind would orchestrate such a stressful ordeal?!

_He would be angry if they underestimated the difficulty of what he had to do, that was for sure._

His worrying about the situation did not cease when the bedroom door inevitably creaked open. In tailed Alfred and Francis, and all Arthur could do was look down – away from their faces. It was demeaning to them and it was demeaning to himself, having to go through this type of life-changing decision. This should have never happened. Arthur found himself cursing his heart and the sabotage that it was causing; chemicals shooting through his body and making him feel sick from the stomach to the bone.

It was Francis that moved first – Arthur knew that he was more empathetic. His eyes widened when he realised that he was making such ridiculous assumptions about them that was unfair. Just because Francis moved first did not mean that Alfred was going to understand the situation any less. Arthur _knew_ that. This was getting out of hand.

"Alfred, would you go get Arthur a drink of water, please?" Francis asked Alfred as he knelt in front of Arthur and reached up, brushing his hand over Arthur's cheek. The Brit looked at him in annoyance, as if the move had been unwelcome, when in fact it was exactly what he needed.

Alfred puffed out his cheeks and opened his mouth to complain, before Francis shot him a look. They shared an unspoken conversation through facial expression ('I'm not leaving' – 'And you want him to be uncomfortable?' – 'Well, no…' – 'Then get to it'), before Alfred finally caved in and hightailed it out of the room.

Francis shifted, moving from the floor and up to the bedside next to Arthur. The mattress sunk down at the additional weight. Arthur refused to look up at him, still trying to organise the thoughts in his head. "Mon Lapin, I need to know what it is that is on your mind before I may help. You couldn't tell me what is on your mind, could you?" The Frenchman said soothingly, moving his hand down to brush in a nurturing manner against Arthur's thigh.

Arthur gave a small choke of a laugh. "Don't give me that, you know exactly what the trouble is."

The response made Francis frown, though they both knew it was true. Whether it needed to be or not, Francis tried to reiterate the problem just in case. "You are worried about having to pick one of us, when you believe that we are both worthy of your affections and you don't want to make the wrong decision. Yet, Arthur, you are more concerned about our losses than for your own – is that not true?"

A furrowing of a thick pair of darkish brows told the tale that Francis was expecting to see. He had not quite thought of it that way.

"Arthur, Arthur… I know you more than anyone, let us not forget that. You might consider yourself to be selfish, because either way you will get the one of us that best suits you—However, I daresay that neither Alfred nor I believe this decision is easy on you. Nevertheless, whichever one of us does not win you over… we don't blame you for it. We cannot. It's difficult on all of us, mon cher."

"Right."

Francis blinked, having not quite expected that type of despondent reply. He narrowed his eyes a little bit and squeezed Arthur's leg. The Briton just smacked it away and turned towards the Frenchman.

"Please!—You want to know what I'm afraid of?!"

"I _know_ what you are afraid of, Arthur. Don't try to raise your voice with me," Francis sighed. It was always stress that made Arthur the most uncooperative. He absently shuffled his hair and scratched his nose before he looked Arthur in the eyes. "You are afraid that you will lose us. If you choose one, you think that what we had that made you happy in the first place between us all would disappear altogether. You shouldn't be so foolish, Arthur. You are not going to lose that."

Arthur looked both annoyed and sceptical. He raised a brow and was about to argue back. "I don—"

"—Don't what? Believe me? Look, Arthur. Just because, hypothetically, you and I don't become partners does not mean that I will just _abandon_ you. Do you not think that we would at least stay friends? Lover or not, Arthur, you are _important_ to me. It does not matter if we are the ones to share our lives together in that way or not—I will still be myself around you and I shall expect the same in return. This whole event is for you to, perhaps, find _more_ in us than what we already had. Whether you get closer to me, or get closer to Alfred, you will never lose what we previously shared. In actual fact, if you changed your ways towards me just because you and Alfred are together, I would be very displeased. Do you understand what I am saying, Arthur?!"

The Briton gaped for a moment, struggling to come up with an answer to that. Normally it would take quite a lot of confusion for Arthur to feel so slow and dim-witted towards formulating a come-back, but it was so difficult to disprove what Francis had said. Eventually he sighed, not seeing the point of trying to argue back.

"…Yes. I do. Of course, I wouldn't wish for either you or Alfred to be different towards me either. I suppose I just expected you to want to, I don't know. Suppress yourselves, or distance yourselves…"

"Would you have done that for _us_, Arthur? Block us out from your life just because someone else owns the right to your body and your heart?" Francis asked, out of sheer interest.

Arthur looked down almost guiltily, and Francis knew instantly that it meant that he had assumed that to be the case. The Frenchman shook his head and circled an arm around Arthur's waist, tugging him in before he reached over and took the slimmer jaw into his hand, tilting his head back up. He smiled as Arthur's breath temporarily ceased.

"…Oh, my Arthur. I want you to understand. If I am your lover, I will take care of you and give you what you and your body needs in a romantic sense, but if I am your friend, I will still cherish what we have and I shall expect the same in return. _Je t'aime, mon amour_ _ou mon ami. _That will not change, only the type of feelings will." He kissed the top of Arthur's forehead softly, before he started to move down.

"I am your friend above all else, but consider me further, Arthur. I have so much I wish to do with you…" Francis purred, and stole a soft kiss from those plump British lips. The door creaked open after, and Alfred gave a loud, possibly irritable cough.

He swept in, bringing the cup of water over to the bedside table before he took a step back. Standing uncomfortably with his arms crossed and his eyes darting every direction except from the kissing pair, it was clear that Alfred was impatiently waiting for his turn. As if that was how this would work; Arthur had to push Francis away barely a few seconds in to let out a sigh.

"Oh, don't mind me—You guys just do, er, whatever you're doin'," Alfred muttered dismissively and waved a hand at them. Arthur couldn't blame him for being uncertain – especially after missing his and Francis's little 'moment' – but felt guilty nonetheless. He shimmied a few inches away from Francis and made space for Alfred to sit on the bed. The American's closed-off body language continued as he climbed on and looked at the bed sheets rather than any of the other two. "So—uh. How are we doing this?"

The question that had been going through all of their minds, but none of them had uttered it yet till now. All three of them paused for thought, before Francis opened his mouth—Alfred immediately shot him down.

"No, ain't doing that," he grumbled. Presumably Francis and Alfred had talked about this exact thing before now, if their plan had gone this far. The American shrugged and he nodded at Arthur. "You're the one this is all about. How do you want us, babe?"

Arthur lifted his hands as if to say 'don't toss that responsibility over here, how should I know?!' which made Alfred rub his temples in frustration – until Francis leant over and whispered something in his ear. His eyes widened, and slowly a smile came onto Alfred's lips.

"Yeah—Yeah, I could definitely do that," he grinned ominously.

The next thing that Arthur knew, he was slammed down to the bed with Alfred clambering on top of him – his wrists caught in one of Alfred's hands, which surprisingly was strong enough to hold both of his down. As jade-green eyes searched upwards questioningly, Alfred pushed his spare hand over his bare stomach – tracing the centre line straight past his heart till he heard Arthur gasp beneath him. Carefully, Alfred's lips pressed to his neck a few times.

"Shhh… Shh, baby," he urged as the Briton tried to speak. He sealed their mouths together chastely to quieten him, reassuringly stroking up Arthur's side – though Arthur didn't know what for. He quickly became concerned, especially as Francis disappeared from view. Alfred rolled his fingers over the arch of his back, tugging Arthur up so their chests pressed together. Warm breath settled over Arthur's skin while Alfred moved to suck above his jugular.

It was easy for Alfred to keep him down and still – every time Arthur so much as flinched, Alfred would kiss another part of his face and stroke a sensitive spot – like just above his hips – or he'd dig a fingernail in near his nipple just to see how Arthur would react. Much as he enjoyed the intimacy, Arthur was not sure he liked being held down presumably for _something_.

"Hey, open your legs a little will you?" Alfred asked.

Pardon?

The towel was stripped away, and it was obviously not by Alfred since Arthur knew _very well_ where Alfred's spare hand was – rubbing his shoulder blades till he bucked sensitively. The cool air rushed over him, and Arthur tried to curl up protectively till another pair of hands forced them right the way apart. Alfred kept his eyes focused on Arthur and he tipped his chin up to make certain that Arthur would watch _him._

"Reckon you'll need that glass of water soon," he said, before Arthur let out a sharp gasp.

A pair of lips sealed over him, and a finger gently stroked up his penis, making the small male tense significantly. Frantically, Arthur fought against letting out any noise. Alfred laughed softly, and he slipped his hand down to cheekily cup Arthur's behind as Francis swirled his tongue around Arthur's uncircumcised tip. Francis held the foreskin down as he lapped, trying to awaken Arthur's body to an aroused state. He sucked gently once he did, licking from the very base up to the small exposed tip.

"Ah, I do love an uncircumcised man sometimes… So much more responsive to this," Francis muttered as he dug his tongue against the head, watching the muscles on Arthur's legs twitch.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Nah. Circumcised is where it's at, mine is much prettier."

"Are you criticising my dick?" Arthur said, narrowing his eyes at Alfred before the American let out another laugh and swallowed Arthur's further comments with his lips.

The comments were forgotten soon as Alfred dipped his tongue into Arthur's mouth, while the opposite happened with Francis – the Frenchman's mouth descending down over him till he was almost in his throat. Clearly Francis was well versed in this activity, gag reflex barely present. It was attractive, feeling an experienced man show him his _specialised expertise_. While Francis did not choke, Arthur almost did as pleasure took him, distracted by both of their tongues.

His eyes threatened to fall downwards, and Alfred did not seem to like that. He grabbed Arthur's chin and forced him to maintain his gaze forwards at him alone. "You watch _me, _is that understood, honeybunch?"

Arthur nodded, transfixed as he was made to stare into Alfred's eyes. His view of the male did not cease, even as Francis started to bob his head and sneakily stroke the inside of his thighs till the muscles hidden within relaxed. Prompted by jealousy from the noises that Francis was making Arthur emit – small whines, caught breath – he laid his hand softly over the pale Brit's lips in order to quieten him. A perhaps strange gesture, if Arthur disliked it, but that was not the case. Arthur kissed Alfred's palm, and the American watched him with intrigue.

The Briton jolted as two fingers were pressed to his entrance, then all the way inside of him. Francis rolled his fingers in a circular movement, pressuring every accessible inch of Arthur's internal walls that he could reach to test his resistance. His mouth was removed with a sticky pop – much to Arthur's disappointment – and he sat up. In next to no time, Francis's drying clothing was stripped away and he climbed in-between Arthur's legs.

"Uh, what do you think you're doing?" Alfred asked, narrowing his eyes and glaring back at Francis as the male pumped himself a few times in preparation for entrance into his beau. "We agreed."

"Agreements may be flexible in this case. We never completely specified that _you_ would be the one to penetrate him first, Alfred," Francis said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, great, suddenly go back on what you said! You are a great pal, honestly!" Alfred grumbled, while simultaneously sliding his hand up and down Arthur's sides to keep the other preoccupied with his touch. "Dude, stop being stiff—no, _don't turn that into something lewd_—I let you pleasure him now, didn't I? Now it's my go."

"Oh yes, I pleasured him while you kept all the kisses and swallowed his looks all for yourself." Francis said, rolling his eyes. This was exactly why neither of them wanted to make this polyamorous. As wonderful men as they were, both would agree – begrudgingly – to be at least a little bit greedy. A sentiment that always referred itself to their ideals of love.

"You could hear him moaning, couldn't you? Besides, fuck off, you already finger-fucked him in the bathroom – you've had your first go, buddy!"

"Finger-fucked? Oh _mon dieu_, Alfred, how _romantic_."

"Are you trying to say that I can't be romantic? I damned well can and you know it! Jeez, if it weren't for Arthur here I would have probably punched you in the gut already," Alfred growled, clearly unimpressed by all of these accusations. "Besides, I would take way better care of him. You're just afraid of fun."

"Pardonne moi? Oh, look who is sprouting nonsense again! Do you ever tire of your running mouth, Alfred, or are you sadistic enough to insist on inflicting others with it?"

"_Woah, stop being a douche!_Besides, your vibe whatever went first yesterday. It's only fair!"

"That makes no sense and you know it!"

"_Christ above, shut the Hell up, both of you,_" Arthur snapped, shoving Alfred's hands away from him and sitting up so he was level with the arguing pair, of whom froze immediately. His unimpressed look spanned from Alfred to Francis and back again – lower eyelids twitching as he stared. Little ticks always seemed to arise in situations like this, filled with irritation.

"Firstly, I would like to say that arguing with one another like this right in front of someone you are about to _sleep with_ is _ridiculous_. I can't believe I have to tell two grown, presumably experienced men that! And then to gossip about _idiotic_ things like _who goes first_? Blimey, what a sodding insult!" Arthur exclaimed, hand-gesturing his disgust. He shook his head and maintained his glare.

"Art—I—"

"—And another thing! _Please don't interrupt me while I am talking_! Now, I know you both want to appear all in control and assert your dominance all over the place in order to get the better hand over one another, but let me assure you that I am certainly not impressed by all of that pointless bollocks right now! Did I really have to fall for two complete morons? Think of my feelings for once, _Christ me."_

Alfred opened his mouth to talk again, but Arthur shushed him with one dirty look. The atmosphere was tense all of a sudden, and Arthur was certainly not helping with his annoyed body language. He grabbed the glass of water that Al had delivered earlier and downed a gulp or two.

For people who claimed to be after his heart, they were not exactly the best at reading the situation as it was. Perhaps he expected Alfred to be a little bit complacent about this, being younger and less experienced, but for Francis to join in with the petty arguing? Really. These were intelligent men, he did not doubt that, but sometimes they needed to have their common sense drilled back into their skulls.

He realised that perhaps it was their feelings towards him that was getting them into such a tangled tulle. Both of them wanted to make the most out of this. Both wanted to put in the best impression. But this was not the way to go about it. Not at all.

"Which is why I am taking this into _my _hands. You think I can't decide what to do for myself? Let me make this clear. I'm not your little adorable trophy wife. I've got feelings and I am not going to be a pushover, so if you want to have someone who clings onto you and forgives you instantly for everything stupid you do, then you certainly don't want me. If you do, _get out,_" Arthur said harshly, and he pointed towards the door.

Francis and Alfred both shuffled uncomfortably at the scolding, but neither tried to leave. Something in Arthur seemed to sigh with relief.

"Honestly, you two. What do I do with you?" The Englishman murmured, and his shoulders deflated a little, tension of the movement beginning to pass. Another pregnant pause passed slowly by them, before Arthur shimmied out of the way of the centre of the bed. He gestured to Alfred. "Lie down."

Alfred's long and thin brows creased, and he looked inquisitively to Francis before he obeyed, laying down on the bed where Arthur had pointed with his chest facing up. He patted his upper thighs and waited for Arthur to do something. "Why?"

"Because I'm in charge now. Stay there and look handsome," Arthur demanded, as his hands scrambled downwards. He tugged at Alfred's clothes and peeled them off quickly, tossing them aside to join the others. Arthur took a moment to take in the view of Alfred's chest, from the broad shoulders to the pectorals that were arching upwards. His build was both muscular and lean – a larger chest in proportion to a relatively slim waist; not as slim as his own, but there was definitely a tapering effect. He held his hand over Alfred's skin, noticing the difference between their tones – a whitish peach, in comparison to a very lightish brown. His natural tan, blessed to him from his land and sun. Alfred's physically attractive figure made Arthur's breath _catch_.

"Baby doll?" The American began from underneath him. Arthur shook his head to stop him murmuring anything else and finally let out an exhale. He pushed his hips back, grinding against Alfred's erection but not actually letting it penetrate. He stared on, watching Alfred's reaction – his mouth opened, a pant let out, white teeth revealed beneath. His eyes rolled up and his lashes fluttered with enjoyment.

"Mon cher… I trust you would not forget about me, would you?" Francis said, sealing a kiss or two over Arthur's neck. Why, he couldn't possibly let Alfred take all of the fun, could he? Frankly he was appalled by Arthur's concentration on the other man. With a small twinge of spite flowing through him, Francis's hands started to explore Arthur's chest, falling from the small and ridged collarbones to the almost perfectly rounded, darkened nipples. His fingertips swirled over the tiny nibs, rolling the centre with the pads.

"C-Course. Francis, don't worry. Your turn will be soon. Get me the box, will you? Cuffs, Francis, cuffs…" Arthur moaned and he gestured with his head back behind him, to the box of goodies on the floor behind them. Alfred's eyes widened a bit.

"Huh? Hey, Arthur, I'm definitely into bondage and stuff – make no mistake. It's _hot_. But I really don't want to be trapped in cuffs and all in front of _Francis—_Especially not when we're trying to—"

Alfred was stopped with a kiss, deep and lacking in chastity. As Francis obeyed and fetched the cuffs, Arthur coaxed Alfred's tongue out of his mouth and suckled on it gently, before they accelerated into a flurry of fast kissing and pushing of lips on and off of one another, tongues often touching and their saliva becoming traded between them. Their bodies built up further with unsustainable heat as they ground their hips together, erections and buttocks grazing – skin contacting skin.

It was with a tell-tale click that Alfred figured out Arthur's intentions. Arthur pulled back and he tugged them to test the metal's strength.

He nodded at Francis. "I know you do like a good _show._ Let me show you mine. Remember that I'm not going to just be your little bitch, both of you. _Remember._"

With that, Arthur shuffled right over the top of Alfred. The American male let out an exhilarated gasp of excitement, and gave a cracked grin. A small, barely audible '_yes_' left his mouth as Arthur, dear Arthur, placed the pink, puckered entrance to the very tip of Alfred's aching cock. His fingertips twitched, and Alfred looked desperately up at Arthur – just _itching _to grab his hips and shove him straight down over him. To seal himself within the man he loved's truly unbelievable warmth, just like the vibrator Arthur had attributed to him last night had been.

"_Don't you dare,_" Arthur growled dominantly, and he pressed himself down. Slowly, Alfred's cock pierced past the first ring of muscles about an inch in, and he continued to slide further as Arthur brought himself lower and lower. Alfred couldn't help but tip his head up to the headboard, exposing that large Adam's apple of his and letting out the most strangled gasp that Arthur had heard for years.

_Ah, it had been too long._

"_Alfred_," Arthur praised.

Alfred was easily the largest of the three in both girth and length, but it was yet to be proved if he was any good with it. There had been barely any rumours about Alfred's sexual exploits. It was with Alfred's confidence only that alerted Arthur to the fact that Alfred had, most certainly, slept with others before. But, of course. He was not as young as his face betrayed – but even that was aging steadily. Within the last few years, Alfred's jaw bone had become more pronounced. More _masculine_. Even more of him would follow. He would be _fine_ in his twenties, a sight to gawp at. Arthur could barely resist.

Of course, it was not just his body that Arthur wanted. It never would be. But he could admire it – seek it, need it, become irrevocably _desperate_ for it.

He took a second once they were fully connected – they both did. They stared at one another, breath leaving them as they realised that their fantasies with the other had become true with the simple insertion. How long had he wondered how Alfred would feel? What Alfred would do if he could get his hands on him? – _If he loved him_.

And he did. They both did. _They both did…_

"Christ, Arthur—Stop looking like that, oh my God," Alfred groaned from beneath him and shimmied his hips upwards impatiently, wanting Arthur to start riding already.

It took till Alfred talked for Arthur to realise that his mouth had been caught, gaping numbly as he stayed still with Alfred stiffly erect inside of him. His cheeks were bright and rosy, flushed. He blinked and shook his head, trying to snap himself right out of it. Now was no time to lose himself, like he did last night – almost senselessly exploring himself and his limits with those toys, as per Alfred and Francis's manipulations. He was still angry about that, but that could be pushed aside for a moment or two.

He kept back his trepidation over the situation. Knowing that he had to decide something that changed everything between the three of them – something that they had willingly passed onto his shoulders – soon was tossed aside for now. All he could think of, _wanted to think of_, was inside him right now, or would be in next to no time.

He raised himself, using the muscles in his thighs to pull himself almost off of Alfred – right till the very tip was sealed within and no more. He then slammed back down, beginning to build a pace that was easy for Alfred to follow. Within no time at all, Alfred's hands firmly placed on his hips and the male started to help him along. While Arthur might have objected at the beginning, he couldn't help but let Alfred take hold of him, guiding him along in the simple task of raising his hips and falling down again – gravity being their third assistant.

Arthur closed his eyes and listened to the slick sounds of their bodies pressing together. There was some friction when their thighs – Alfred's outer and his inner – brushed, and where there was the most contact, actually inside of him, a sticky sound emitted from within. The handcuffs jingled. It was good that Francis had prepared him so well, because this would have been so much harder without proper lubricant. As it was, sloppy noises came from in-between them. Arthur's ears occasionally caught the snagged sounds of Alfred's breath, which was slow and drawn through his gritted teeth unless when he let out his small, defenceless grunts.

"Arthur, ugh, _Arthur…" _he could hear that faint American vocal chords groan. When Arthur finally opened his eyes again, he was greeted with a primal, instinctive look in Alfred's eyes that confessed just how much Alfred wanted to seize this opportunity. It was raw need, intense concentration as Alfred pressed his hands back and cupped his bottom, squeezing it as he helped lift him with so much ease. Though some perspiration was building on Alfred's forehead in arousal, it seemed like the low thrusts that the younger male's hips gave, rolling up and up each time Arthur fell, was effortless. Like his strength, it seemed his stamina knew no bounds. Only Alfred's arousal might have been his shortfall. He was blushing a deep red now, panting and his movements started to go off of rhythm as Alfred brought Arthur down.

Alfred gave a soft laugh, and Arthur frowned at him as he slammed back down over Alfred's tip, like several times before. The American just shook his head, and he grinned at him. "I want to tell you things, but it feels kinda weird with Francis here."

"Al—Tell me."

"Nuh-uh, it's alright, I, _ungh…_"

"_Al_—"

"You look so beautiful right now," Alfred murmured, and gave Arthur a genuine look – no room for doubts here, Alfred meant every word. "You look so beautiful. You've got this flushed look on your face and you keep like, zoning out and it looks like you're enjoyin' this so much. Ah… God, Arthur. Yes. _Yes._"

Arthur tried to prevent himself smiling back, but he couldn't. So instead he tipped his head up to the sky, just listening to what Alfred wanted to say – letting each word sink in, becoming absorbed in the moment and channelling it towards their joint gratification. "Keep going…"

"And—And I just want to kiss every part of you right now. I wanna, ugh, I want to take care of you and—God Dammit, Arthur. I want to flip you around and plough you into this bed. I," he shifted himself, sitting up and grabbing Arthur around the waist while his lips burrowed against Arthur's naked neck, darting warm breath all over the tips of his collar bones. "I want to make love to you slow. Slow at first, then I'd give it to you harder. I wouldn't be—ngh—satisfied till you were moaning for me. For just me, Art. And, and I'd make sure you'd… _mm_. You'd cum first. Or I would at least kiss and take care of you until you did. I am going to… I'm going to, ah…"

"Al, hold on. You're getting too far ahead of yourself, calm down a little," Arthur moaned, trying to warn him about his accelerating pace. Alfred clearly was getting closer to orgasm than he was, but it wasn't too surprising. He was older, he had more experience, and Alfred was such an enthusiastic lover. Arthur kissed his cheek, his nose, and then his mouth, while Alfred searched his way up Arthur's back, groaning into their kiss.

A third hand found its way onto Arthur's body, grasping hold of the Briton's shapely behind and smacking it gently. A tickling sensation went up his neck and then moved to his ear, and soon there was a light sting were Francis's teeth bit into the shell till Arthur and Alfred's kiss broke. Arthur yelped, and he tried to hit back, but Francis took the opportunity to grab his wrist. "Ah, ah, ah. You did not forget about me, did you, ma petit chou-fleur?"

Opening his mouth to comment, Arthur found something suddenly being pressed against his half-opened lips. He glanced back at Francis questioningly, before he faced forwards, eyeing the thing Francis had placed there. It was one of the vibrators – the deep blue one that Arthur had dedicated to Francis the night before. His eyebrows furrowed, and he kept his teeth in the way so Francis could not simply push it in.

"Oh, if you are worrying about hygiene… do not worry, I just cleaned it thoroughly. Where did you think I was? And besides, Arthur—you have probably given fellatio to things that have been inside of you before. There is not too much of a difference, is there?" Francis purred, rubbing the cheek that he had grasped and kneading it in his palm while his mouth started to kiss Arthur's neck again. "Suck it."

Arthur finally opened up, willingly sucking the toy into his mouth. The Frenchman guided it a few inches inside – just enough to fill Arthur's mouth but not penetrate into his throat – and let go.

Instead of controlling the item that he gave Arthur to suck on, he grabbed the chain holding his handcuffs together and he yanked it back. The Briton undoubtedly would have yelped, had his mouth not been filled up, but a guttural noise came from somewhere in his throat. He tossed a look behind his shoulder and caught a glance of Francis's sly expression – a smirk on his lips, framed by his beard, and an intending look in his eye. Arthur was kept from falling backwards by a hand that cupped his hand, giving it just enough support.

"Ngh, oh yeah, Francis hold him like that," Alfred praised, observing the figure that he could see before him with enthusiasm.

At the angle Arthur was held at, the slimmest of the three's body could be easily taken in – the white expanse, mostly smooth and without much muscle definition, all the way up to a jutting ribcage and up further to visible collar bones and his clear Adam's apple. Alfred tried not to salivate at the sight, but he did bring his tongue into action. He leant up, and rolled his tongue over Arthur's chest, licking right the way from his upper abdomen, to the subtly thumping jugular at his throat.

Francis's lips met the other side of Arthur's neck, and the Briton's shoulders tensed immediately from the surprise. Alfred purred out some reassurance, and the Frenchman just rubbed Arthur's hips softer. The Briton could only gasp numbly, mouth filled up and his hands trapped so he could not remove it – right now he was at the mercy of the other two men. And strangely enough, he did not dislike it.

The thrusts from below progressively became more and more erratic. Soon it became clear that Alfred was on the finishing throes before he would be through. Arthur looked down and gave him an intense gaze, as if internally begging him not to stop – like he wanted this to go on forever. Alfred took one look at it, and he shook his head slightly just in time before he groaned out loudly and slammed up against Arthur one more time before there was a sticky and hot feeling spilling into Arthur from the inside.

He slumped against the bed and looked up apologetically at Arthur – he wanted to go on just as much as Arthur had wanted him to, but he couldn't help being young. He was not even out of breath, only panting ever so slightly. His stamina certainly did outdo him.

The Briton wanted to tell him that it was alright to have cum when he did – he was quite close himself – but the scenery changed. So quickly, he was wrenched off of Alfred and dragged away, air hurtling past him before he could interpret what was going on. Suddenly, he was pushed, perhaps even slammed, against a flat surface. There was barely any time between Alfred's withdrawal and the sensation of another cock entering into his body. Smaller, yes, but of course—it was what you do with it that counts.

There was darkness. Francis's hand – he assumed – folded over his eyes to keep his sorry eyes from any seeing. In the dark, there was a click and another jangle. His hands were freed, so Arthur pushed them in front of him to figure out where he had been slammed against. He could feel that it was smooth. Very smooth – smoother than the wall. It took him a few seconds to realise what would give such a clear sensation, and when he realised, he let out a slow exclamation past the vibrator jammed in his mouth.

Speaking of the vibrator; another click, and it was on. The vibrator started to lowly pulsate in his mouth, stirring against his cheeks and tongue, and the roof of his mouth. He heard himself let out a loud '_mm_', and Arthur reached up to try pull it out. His hand was swatted away.

"Angleterre, you are not questioning my methods to pleasure you, are you?" Francis groaned in his ear. The Briton shook his head, and tried to keep sucking the vibrator to trap it in his mouth – it was threatening to vibrate backwards and fall out, and jamming his teeth into the toy gave a sensation which even he was not sure he liked – while he tried to readjust to the new penetration. He found himself missing how deep Alfred went, but Francis had yet to show his merits. Undoubtedly, where Alfred made up for with raw talent, Francis would exhibit his virtues in a different way.

"_Remember when we were young? I took you to that lake in my land, do you remember? The one with very clear water_," Francis murmured into his ear, too quiet for Alfred to hear – wherever he was. While Francis talked, he started to give slow thrusts. Each time, he only pulled out an inch or so before replacing himself. It was softer, less haphazard than Alfred's frantic pressing, and was much more deliberate. "_You saw yourself in the reflection, and when I looked away, you started to cry because you thought you were not an attractive little thing_?"

This was the name of Francis's game, the way he would tempt him. Delving into memories – though, Arthur had to question the one that Francis had decided to mention. Why bring up a past insecurity about himself?

"_My Arthur, open your eyes_," he said softly and kissed the shell of his ear. His hand withdrew from his eyes and moved downwards, cupping his hips instead.

The Green-eyed male looked ahead, and stared into those same eyes. He looked at the rest of himself in the mirror that Francis was casually making love to him against. His cheeks were almost bright red, flushed from arousal. His lips were widely parted, with the end of the vibrator poking out from in-between them as he held onto it. His eyelids were narrowed, eyelashes slightly wet on the lower lid. Blond hair was tossed in his face, strewn messily over his forehead and a few strands reaching down near his eyes. He watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, taking in the sight.

"Look how beautiful you are now, Arthur," the oldest male purred to him, slyly sliding his hands up and down Arthur's hips as he started to increase the intensity of his thrusts – but not the pace. It remained slow, but soon Francis was pulling almost totally out before sliding back into him. The change stimulated Arthur more than he thought – it helped him recover from his near-orgasm with Alfred, slowing down and letting the intensity rebuild. "You're _so_ beautiful."

He tried to shake his head, which was easier said than done in this position. Francis only gave a low tut, and he grasped the clean end of the vibrator. Without switching it off, he pulled it right out of the Briton's mouth and he watched him tremble with relief through the mirror with a dirty smirk.

"No, don't speak—" Francis begun as soon as Arthur threatened to open his mouth. Instead of tossing the vibrator away, he started to drag it over Arthur's sensitive flesh. He thirstily drank in the sight of Arthur trying not to shudder from the mere touch of the buzzing toy, and dragged it down to touch one of Arthur's nipples. An unwilling shout emitted from the shorter male and he cupped his mouth so he wouldn't have to watch his moans in the mirror. Francis wouldn't let him look away. He circled the vibrator around his nipple until he watched. "—See this? This, is lovely. Such an attractive pink, calling for me. Want me to touch the other, Arthur?"

The Briton refused to answer, but Francis knew how to handle the situation.

"Arthur? Tell me, do you want me to touch it. If you don't answer, perhaps I won't?" He teased.

A small murmur.

"What was that, I cannot hear you?" _Thrust, thrust_.

"-"

"Louder, please. Tell me, Arthur, want do you want?"

"_Just do it you twat_!" Arthur shouted out, bowing his head after seeing the words tumble out of his mouth right in front of him. He hung his head as if shamed by Francis's actions and the forced admission. It seemed that Francis took pity on him, because he started to give him the same treatment on the other side. A few gentle kisses were pressed against Arthur's neck, sucking lightly until Arthur gave in and looked up. He wanted to watch Francis kiss him – his lips pressing up his neck, his beard tickling wherever his lips had previously been. He moaned as Francis kissed the edge of his jawbone.

"I apologise, Angleterre. I just want you to see. You deserve this, Arthur. Do you really think you would attract the both of us if you were not beautiful? Handsome, whatever word you would like. But I think you like 'beautiful', don't you?" He said and winked at Arthur through the mirror. The Brit groaned, but kept his thoughts to himself.

(_Fuck Francis, why do you have to know everything?)_

Francis's thrusts continued to be slow, but they became eventually more and more powerful. With each go, he would push Arthur into the mirror, where he would have to fight against watching himself moan and writhe in the mirror in front of him – the same mirror he watched the night before, picturing them touching him. Now, he didn't need to picture it. A pair of hands were already rubbing against parts of his body. The other male had already came inside him. Had he been flexible enough to check all the way back behind him, he would have seen that Francis was a little bit coated with Alfred's cum from inside of his now wet chamber.

"You're close," Francis observed. Arthur swallowed down the series of pants that he was trying desperately not to let out – refusing to let himself see the weakness that Francis and Alfred gave him – and watched as the Frenchman tapped the tip of his erection with the buzzing vibrator. He shouted out loud, a strangled noise, and tipped his head ceiling-wards. He hadn't realised. Now that Francis had told him, he realised that he was struggling to hold his orgasm in. "_Just let go, Arthur. Finish yourself for me_."

And as if on command, he did. Arthur gripped the sides of the mirror, and he came against it, spilling onto the shiny plain. Francis held the vibrator against his shaft while he finished, the last few ribbons of cum darting out of him before he slumped slightly and gasped, shuddering against Francis as a pulsing sensation flourished through his head, sparks fizzling out after the initial ignition.

The taller of the two pulled out of him, and he motioned to Arthur that he should get on his knees. Arthur obeyed, and he opened his mouth to take Francis in expectantly, all too ready to finish him off – but disappointed that it was over. Francis guided himself to his lips and pressed the cock-head against those rosy—

"—Francis, wait," Alfred's voice came from behind them. Both Arthur and Francis glanced over, ready to see what Alfred had to say for himself.

Sitting on the bed with his legs crossed and his back leant behind, holding himself up with one arm, Alfred was slowly pumping himself. He had acquired a new erection, totally stiff and reddened with arousal. He must have gained it when watching Francis slam Arthur against the mirror. Noticing that Arthur was staring, he gave him a wink and removed his hand to let the Englishman see just how ready he was for another go around – it stood perfectly up, though threatening to come all the way back to rest on his chest instead.

Arthur breathed out slowly when Francis removed himself from near his mouth. Of course; he was a teenager. Quicker to finish, but also quicker to get it back up. Alfred's stamina really was, rightly, inhuman.

"Alfred, are you suggesting that we…" Francis muttered, looking down at Arthur while he spoke, dragging his fingers through his honeycomb blond hair.

"That is _precisely_ what I am suggesting. You wanna do it? We know he likes it," the American stallion replied, getting up onto his knees and clearing a space on the bed. He threw Arthur's duvet off of it, and smoothed down the bed sheet that had unattached at the corners through their efforts.

"I think it would be better to pose the question to Arthur," the romantic responded, and he knelt down before Arthur. Taking the soft cheeks into his hands, Francis made certain that Arthur was looking at him in the eyes. It was easy to consent but not mean it, after all. He had to know that his heart was in it; that this was not their sexual prowess running wild but a love-making that Arthur wanted to experience.

Arthur swallowed, not quite believing that Francis was going to ask this of him. Yesterday, he never would have known.

"Arthur, I'm sure that you are perfectly adept enough to realise what Alfred is asking of you. What _I_ am asking of you," he begun, rubbing his cheek over the flushed skin, fascinated as it turned whitish when he pressed even slightly. "We want to both be penetrating you at the same time, Arthur. Would you like to do it?"

He paused and waited for Arthur's response.

The Briton seemed quite blank in the eyes, like he could not believe that this question was being posed to him at all. It seemed so farfetched, and in a way he was actually scared. He knew he was physically capable of it, and he enjoyed it with the toys, but this was completely different. This was not just some pointless masturbation, moaning for two men that he never would have. He had had sex with them now. They loved him. They wanted him to perform the same deed.

"_Bugger me sideways…_" He murmured, disbelieving that this would happen to him, before he gave Francis a look to make sure he knew that the words were just mutterings. Arthur brushed a hand through his hair nervously – picking up ticks from Alfred, it seemed – and darted his eyes between them both. Alfred was on the edge of the bed, looking positively adolescent as he tapped his thighs impatiently, wanting some release. Francis was controlling himself far better, but there was no denying that he was having to hold his orgasm for quite a while as they got through these details.

He closed his eyes, wanting to make himself blot them out for a second. He couldn't think about this with their faces right there, eager but pressing. But why was he dillydallying at all? He wanted to experience this. He would never have another chance to have them both at once. He wanted to feel them both inside of him again. But—…

Oh. What was the 'but'? He couldn't recall one. Why did he need to take the time out at all? Because he was blown away by the offer? Because he was a bit intimidated by the thing itself? He already knew he could do this. They had nothing to fear.

He gulped and nodded, letting his eyelids fall open. "Yes, I want it," his serious reply came, and Francis found no trace of a lie. Besides them, Alfred tried hard not to fist-pump the air.

He was heaved up in next to no time onto the bed. Alfred swooped in to give Arthur a kiss and a megawatt smile, and Francis pecked at his shoulder lovingly. Their hands wrapping around his waist and stomach was an odd feeling, because he could not tell which were whose without looking. He felt like he was being smothered, drowning in their loving embraces – different styles, but with identical intentions.

"Francis, how will we—uh…" Alfred started, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the bed thoughtfully, wondering the mechanics of what they would be doing. Francis rolled his eyes at the question.

"Did you not hear what he said earlier? Arthur said that he wanted to be involved in the decision-making. He'll tell us what he wants," he growled and pulled away from the Brit. Alfred followed his lead with an apologetic look on his face, as if he thought that his poor management would end him already.

Of course – Arthur still needed to decide between them. The memory would have made him groan had he not immediately pushed it out of his mind. Not tonight – he couldn't think about this tonight.

Swallowing, Arthur looked over them both, deciding on what to do. A snare in the moment came from nowhere as he realised that this was probably not going to mechanically work. He had to voice his concerns. "It's all very well thinking about doing this, but we have to be serious. We don't have any proper lubricant, and I'm sorry but I will not put my body under all that potential damage."

The atmosphere took a plunge.

Alfred sighed and let his shoulders sag, but he leant closer to Arthur and kissed the shell of his ear. "It's okay, babycakes. We don't have to do it. We could just have a little bit of you-know-what, hm? I really want you," he purred, trying to make the most out of the situation. He moulded his lips over the top of Arthur's neck, and listened to Arthur moan and felt the motion of his nod. Alfred lowered Arthur to the bed and cuddled with him, brushing his hot, throbbing erection against the white skin of Arthur's inner thigh. "You have no idea what I want to do to you… Mm…"

"_Alfred_," Arthur moaned back, entangling his slim arms around Alfred's neck and pressing their noses together, letting the hot mood begin to enmesh them again. "If it's anything like what I imagine, _gosh_, yes. Heavens to Betsy. I know. I know what you want."

"Heavens to Betsy? Heh. God—you're—so—mm—" Alfred stammered out, kissing Arthur in-between the pauses. He rocked his cock against Arthur's leg, trying to get some steady relief as he waited for Arthur to get hard again. "—_cute_…"

Before Arthur could flay Alfred alive for calling a grown man – one that was significantly older than him – 'cute', a cough came from behind them, and they had a look at the third male almost accusatorially for breaking the beginnings of a nice, subtle love-making. Francis sat there, twiddling something in his fingers. It was a small bottle of a blue gel, close to finish.

"Francis I swear to God if that is lube I will punch you," Arthur groaned, sitting up. He knew the brand and the flavour. In fact, he had a similar bottle of the stuff in his house. He could have _sworn_ he had had some left.

"It is lube," Francis stated, popping the bottle open. "We shall have to use this, non? It is a shame, it has an exquisite flavour."

"That's it, I'm going to punch you. I needed that! Do you know how _stupid_ it is to use things with alcohol and perfume in? I had to use lotion, Francis! Lotion! If I ripped last night-!" He growled, glaring at the Frenchman like he was a total idiot, and by Arthur's reckoning he was. He definitely was. "What do you even have to say for yourself?!"

"We were bound to get to this point, mon cher," Francis tried to explain. "I had to think of the future. I swiped the bottle just in case. There is barely anything in here, Arthur. Only enough for one round. We wouldn't have been able to do anything otherwise. It is not clever, I realise, but it was a necessary precaution."

"Right. So you risked me being in a load of pain because you wanted to have enough lubricant just in case you and Alfred fuck me at the same time. Lovely," Arthur growled. Before Francis could respond to justify himself a little bit, Arthur stormed over on his knees and snatched the bottle from him. He threw it to Alfred. "Lie the fuck down."

Francis sighed. He was clever enough to realise that if he tried to speak again, Arthur would shoot him down immediately. Obeying, he laid on his front. It seemed like Arthur was taking the suggested activity anyway.

"You try to do something like that with me again, Francis, I will—" he sighed and shook his head. "I don't even know what I would do. It's good to know that you aren't flawless either. You may have known that this would happen, but it doesn't make it a good enough excuse."

He climbed on top of Francis and positioned himself over the top of him, just like he had done with Alfred not too long earlier. He shimmied his hips till his entrance was fitting over Francis's head, and he rubbed against it without letting it penetrate. Because Francis had been so close to finishing before, the head was smeared with pre-cum, which Arthur transferred onto himself. The feeling was wet, but oddly arousing.

"I better punish you. But what would you want? I'd let Alfred be the only one to have sex with me for the rest of this evening, but I want you. You're an annoying prick, do you know that? I'm annoyed with you, but I still want you inside of me. You both are sodding unique in that respect," Arthur scathed.

He pushed his fingers over Francis's plain chest. It was a lot smoother and less muscularly toned than Alfred's, but it was still quite attractive. He liked him with a little bit of hair there too – enough to be rugged, but not over the top. It differentiated him from Alfred, really. It was a fresh, more-realistic manliness in a way. Alfred's body was one that was awe-inspiring to look at, but Arthur loved to see little 'flaws' – if they could be called that. In a way, they made him feel much better about his own body.

"I know you. You'd want to see me moan, my face, my body move against yours," Arthur evaluated, rolling his fingers over Francis's abdomen thoughtfully. He smirked and found Francis's eyes, which were taking him in. Bingo. "It's why you did me from behind but kept me in front of the mirror, isn't it? You wanted to watch. It gives you joy, doesn't it? Seeing your efforts do good for a man…"

Francis cracked his mouth open, but Arthur gave a tut and shook his head to make sure whatever thought Francis had was silenced. It was. Finally, Arthur felt some power over the impenetrably proud and resourceful Frenchman. So he lifted himself up, and he turned around before positioning himself over Francis again – reverse cowgirl style. With a glance over his shoulder, he grinned sadistically at the disappointed expression on the Frenchman's face.

Got him. Of course. Francis exerted his efforts so much because he wanted to see and devour the fruits. This denied him that. It was a good punishment. It was nice to know that he had discovered a weakness from him.

He slammed his hips down, taking Francis right back inside of him. A loud moan came from behind, and Arthur joined in. Francis's cock felt a lot thicker from this angle, buried balls-deep inside of his hole, of which also cushioned his fall. He started to rise and push back down, developing a quick rhythm – one that was far faster than Francis gave him when he was stuffing him against the mirror. A sweet mumbling came out of Arthur's mouth as he closed his eyes, enjoying the heated friction of Francis whipping in and out of him due to his own set pace – trying not to moan too hard to give Francis some satisfaction. He could feel Francis's legs tense, writhing somewhat impatiently because all he wanted to do was to _see_.

Arthur was kissed from nowhere. Of course, Alfred. How could he forget his Alfred? He kissed back, having to slow his movements a little bit so he could concentrate on the feel of their lips sliding together. Alfred was putting part of his soul into this, kissing deeply, dragging him closer before pushing his tongue into Arthur's mouth and exploring him that way. Their saliva mingled, and he knew a noise that came behind him was a whimper from Francis because he knew he was missing out.

When the kiss was broken, Alfred grabbed Arthur's hips and stilled him. Francis would have to wait for any more relief. The American licked Arthur's cheek on the way to his ear, and he laughed lightly at the feeling of closeness, despite the Englishman being penetrated by another man. "Gotta be slow, peaches, I've got to get you ready for me too…"

The smell of blueberry came into the room as Alfred slicked up one of his fingers. The next thing Arthur knew, Alfred was sliding the digit into him alongside Francis's cock. He gasped and grabbed Alfred's wrist, warning him via the motion to be gentle. Alfred obeyed and kissed him again, eating up any potential complaints. He probed Arthur from within, rubbing the lubricant from his finger all over Arthur's inner walls wherever he could reach.

"Francis, I swear to God this is the most touching I will ever give your dick again, gross," the boisterous American said, pulling a face. It was pretty clear from the get-go that a threesome relationship would not work out, when Alfred found no sexual appeal towards Francis at all. Francis, though, Arthur trusted, was probably a little bit more liberal to the idea – but why force something that would not work out?

It was just a shame that he had to figure out how to piece everything together. How was it possible to do that without breaking one of their hearts?

Another wet finger joined the first, and Arthur suddenly grabbed Alfred's shoulders when he felt the American scissoring him. He felt so full already, and Alfred was pushing the boundaries. If he thought about it a little bit more, he might have been terrified. Alfred was the larger of the two, and he was not inside yet. Arthur wished that this would go as smoothly as he hoped. He looked down and saw his chest thump up and down to go with the beating of his heart. His breathing, now that he realised it, was very heavy. It caught constantly, snagged by effort, and he had to force himself to rekindle his lungs of breath. A hot, melting feeling was embracing his spine – spiralling upwards from the aching point where Alfred's fingers pushed against him from the inside. Since they were pushing up, Alfred's fingers were closer to his prostate. Arthur wondered if he was going to be utterly senseless after this. He already felt like he was going to collapse.

"Alfred, enough," he demanded, and the fingers were tugged out with a sticky noise. Another sloppy sound filled the room as Alfred squirted and rubbed the very last of the lube over his hard shaft.

Before Arthur even realised it, he had been laid right back. His body was pressed against Francis's, and the Frenchman held him around the waist to keep him there. It gave Alfred enough room to slot in-between both of their legs, and he hiked Arthur's right up and apart. He replaced his fingers with himself, carefully slipping into the Briton. When he was met with resistance, he kept going. A minute or so later, Arthur was stuffed full with the thick girths of two grown men.

He had no thoughts. In his mind was nothing but silence. He just could not think. Everything was clouded over with pure sensation. It hurt, but in the best of ways. His mouth was open, eyes staring at the ceiling. He could detect the hissing sound of his inhales, the warmth of the two inside of him, but detecting was all he could do right now.

He detected a voice. Someone was asking him if he was alright. For some reason, time felt like it was moving slower – or maybe, they were dawdling longer than he expected. Green orbs searched for blue, and Alfred's worried face came into view. Arthur read his lips.

"_Arthur? Are you alright?"_

He didn't know. He didn't know anything right now – anything other than the feeling of them within him, their cocks pulsing lightly as blood surged through them and kept them erect. All for him. They were close to bursting, ready to fill him up with fluid. Ready to cum.

Somehow, he managed to nod. Or he must have, because Alfred smiled lightly, and he buried his head into his neck and started to whisper sweet, loving nothings to him that Arthur could not quite interpret as words. There was suddenly motion, and then the two men were rhythmically sliding out of him before plunging back in. The pace was slow and excruciating. The only place that Arthur did not feel numb was right there, where Alfred was starting to plough into him strongly while Francis kept up best as he could with the pace.

He heard groaning. Who was that? He looked at Alfred and saw that the American was too busy kissing his neck and smiling for it to be him. It did not sound like Francis's voice either. It must have been him. He was moaning loudly, very loudly. He watched his arms swirl around Alfred and tug him closer for comfort, and Alfred pulled up a little to look at his face. Whatever Alfred saw, it was alluring to him. Arthur knew because he blushed back, and grinned so widely. He repeatedly murmured the same thing over and over again.

"I love you. I love you_. I love you_."

The other's voice said the same thing.

Someone changed angle. It sent Alfred and Francis straight against his prostate, pressing against it with literally every thrust. Arthur screamed in pleasure. Colours filled his vision, fizzling over and taking his sight for seconds at a time. He felt a burst of energy, and his chest was wet seconds after. Not too long later, the same warm, wet sensation was splurging into him too. One load then the next, not quite at once but close enough.

He groaned at the loss of one of the large shafts exiting his body, and again at the next. When they pulled away, one from in front of him and one from beneath, he reached out for someone. He didn't know who took his hand and kissed his cheek.

"_I'm sorry, Arthur. You were so good to us_," they told him. "_Mon petit chou-fleur…_"

They kissed. Then the other one kissed him too. His body felt numb, completed and lethargic, like he would never be able to get up from this spot again. But he was not distressed. The feeling in his chest was nothing less than euphoria. A happiness that consumed him.

Someone picked up the duvet and laid it over them. Two sets of arms embraced him, and brought back some of the heat. He could barely respond to them at all, even though he wanted to. He wanted to thank them, to tell them that he loved them too. But all he could do was give himself to darkness, as the exhaustion finally claimed him.

* * *

When Arthur woke up, he was alone.

He winced and looked up, glancing at the spaces on the bed. Had it been an elaborate wet dream? He rubbed his temples and shook his head. It couldn't have been. He could feel the ache in his hips, and the wetness within himself and on his stomach. They had been here. They had made love to him. Meaningful, precautious, everlasting love.

He laughed. All of this time, he thought that he was loving them senselessly. That they would never want him back – either of them, let alone them both. He smiled, and remembered what had happened. He had blacked out completely. It must have been half a day later, and he had slept ceaselessly in order to recover. Still, he probably would be bed-ridden for the rest of tonight.

Bless these bed sheets. They were going to be utterly ruined. He would have to throw them away. How was he meant to get cum off of silk? Time, he thought, for an easier to clean alternative.

A frown came to his lips when he realised that they had, indeed, left. Glancing around, he tried to see any sign of them. Their clothing was gone, the room was tidied, and his special box of goodies was stuffed back into the cupboard where it belonged with the vibrators, the handcuffs and all. It seemed to be hopeless, till he went to look at the alarm clock to see what time it was.

There, on the bedside table, was a tray. He reached over to collect it, swearing at the pain between his thighs. Dragging it back, he placed it on his lap and had a look at what they left him. A single red rose was stuffed into a shapely glass vase. They had kept the thorns on. Arthur smiled – they knew him better than he expected. He loved thorny roses the most. They were glorious, but prickly and difficult to obtain. He missed the obvious metaphor.

He picked up the fork, and he dipped it into the pasta that they had made for him – probably to make up for having him miss all of the meals during the day. A chicken and ham carbonara, it appears. He took a forkful of the pasta and took a taste, melting at the divine textures of the pasta, the meats, and the creamy sauce spiked with a touch of black pepper. While he ate, he took a look at the rest of the goodies. There was a book, no doubt to entertain him for the duration of being bedridden. He realised that a small tablet was beneath it. Well, at least he could watch some iplayer too. BBC television was a lovely thing to behold, at times.

Finally, and he came to this last deliberately, he stumbled upon a folded sheet of paper. He pushed his fork into the pasta for now, and he opened it up to read the messages they had left behind.

It read thus:

"_Dear Arthur,_

_We apologise for leaving you on your own, but Alfred and I have agreed that it would be better for you to have some time alone. We have flights to catch back to our countries, after all. I hope you may forgive us._

_I know that it would be ridiculous to let you make your decision between us after just this one night. You need to have time to consider. But there is something else I would like to propose. Alfred and I decided that it would be best for us to demonstrate what we could offer you as your lover by our own terms, individually. If you would allow us, we would like to take you on a 'date', one for each of us._

_I look forward to showing you around Paris personally, mon cher, and Alfred has asked me to assure you that he is excited to escort you through his plans as well._

_Call us when you want to set up your dates. We'll be waiting for your call._

_We love you very much. Do not doubt that from either of us._

_Hope that you feel better soon. Please enjoy the selection of treats we prepared for your waking. Alfred says that he wants you to know that he does not require his tablet back._

_- Francis and Alfred._"

* * *

**And lo, there was an update.**

**Sorry for the huge delay - life matters, you know the drill. My heart is back in this.**

**- Love, DS.**


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